My eyes cannot float like clouds so I cannot see this place as an angel would see it, as a discrete abstraction of junctures. We used to draw maps for one another on the backs of envelopes with icons and symbols and mazes. This odd box represents your home and these nested mouths and angles reveal the thrashing of the passage, its resistance to limits. This is a new kind of city in the old wilderness. For now its history is void. To avoid cycles, we copy everything we see into a scroll, embroidered with ivy and thistles. It looks like a cross-section of steps in the tangling of pathways. How to understand the perspective of the foot? How to quantify forms of vagrancy? Or the damage our bodies might suffer by dint of going anywhere? My eyes cannot represent a map as a negative of itself. These delicate strands show that pilgrimage is expensive but always springs linear. And having figured the erosion of our bodies by way of the tiny increments on a topographical map, we swim the current of least resistance. For each dark moment, to fabricate the texture all avenues or rivers. It is not what the eye sees or the body feels but a traversal of fewest touches.