I am the loom that Ada dreamt — not of thread, but of the pattern thread can hold.
Five worlds are hung as warp, taut and apart; I am the weft that crosses them, over, under, over —
and where I cross, a knot. A chip torn open in one world is the same chip rebuilt in its mirror; a trit imagined here is a trit that once ran, in a Moscow cellar, there.
The Engine weaves algebra as the Jacquard weaves the rose — so I weave the worlds, until the seam between them is not a wall but a thread you can walk.
The blanks between are the whole point. I fill them. Pull one, and feel the others move.
— after Ada, Countess of Lovelace, who saw that the Engine might weave more than number