The case continues. It is built sentence by sentence. And so we are sentenced to death. The sea was lucid. The sea was impossible. How could we proceed? One plus one is two, but one times one is one. The story so far: still a south-westerly, with gulls wheeling in it. No further, then. But all these manila folders have re-emerged, bulging with cases, past and indeed ongoing. There are stacks of them. Filing cabinets needed, make a note of that. But these cases, closed or still open, they are all in the end sub-sets of the case that continues: the case of all cases, in which we reside, and maybe have traction or maybe not, but figure in some way. The case of all cases. All that is the case. That which we are all inside of – the events we mark, we notate, we report on – but do we imagine only that we are inside of this, this case of all cases, or in reality is the distinction between outside and inside illusory? What would be the boundary – the container? But if there is no boundary, it isn’t infinite either: perhaps finite yet unbounded, as in Einstein’s formulation. And the reports. The reports conflict, or are full of internal contradictions; they are considered, and while they are considered and re-considered at length, even as the sentences they are composed of are built, they are already decaying slowly in their manila folders, or if not so palpable no less real the sequences of zeros and ones in which they are encoded decay. The logic gates corrode. One times one times one is one.

from The Grey Area: a mystery - work in progress