Every place a person stands is its own country, with an inhabitant of but one. There is no other way to be in this world. Your eyes saccade over the contours of the known yet this process is not reversible: a grace and a curse. There can be no ascertaining the arrangement of any other person’s map of their own private nation, no method of discovering the symbol on the legend that marks your name, your being, in that strange other’s mental topography. Is it a dagger for danger? A bridge to always cross to reach a welcoming shore? A gun; a fire; an uncanny artifact ever unknown even to the cartographer.

How much is veiled even to that author of the map is what is more unnerving still — that some Jungian ur-memory resident since the Devonian could overrun it all at any moment, redraw the boundaries, a revanchist lusus naturae marauding across the bunched mountains and huddled hills which in this case actually is the map and the territory, and with no recourse but to watch the unfolding invasion.

(This is an example of my “real” writing. Took me as long to compose as 15-20 of my blog posts.)