among the society of cartographers: day 4

A new line makes of us a plane. Surface area increases accuracy: we gather
data-points, make ourselves a study. Spread thin in some occult

symmetry, coupling in lexicon, uncoupling. It may be the difference
between hill & river. It may be my watch is broken. More likely still

is the future fleeing itself in a shatter of phenomena, building against
the day when familiar input into the blackbox of self returns nulls & I

rewire. But here in the battered slush the city makes of snow one learns
to build a map in one's head. That is east. There is the train. You know

that all this obliquely makes its way to you. I missive, headlong through
the closing gap--but through, & through, & so much land on which to play.