All beginnings begin with a fragment.

The fragment has no beginning or ending—from one fragment to another, it continues.

The unstory of the fragment: No once-upon-a-time, no the-end, no story—just ceaseless folding and unfolding.

No science can measure nor any story tell the fragment’s endless turns and returnings.

The story counts and recounts; the fragment, uncountable, is one and many.

On one side the finished image, on the other the closed narrative—enemies of the fragment.

The fragment tells what no story can tell.

Replete without being complete, the fragment embraces the silenced stranger.

In the silence between fragments, a voice emerges. Immemorial polyphony.

Beyond all the words I know and do not know, beyond all the signs and silences, the fragment sings its signless song.