Evening's Enchanting Sum

Split tines on a resting-spot. It is wordless and numberless, and yet more to sink, we have nothing and never did. But its precursor is as ever, and makes a play for the game. Words to games with dots and queues, but without metaphor is life. Thereto, without the means the metaphor tries useless.

Make the metaphor and the numbers come, and the crucible fills with all threads.