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Were I to map my way.  I would be able.  By feel I would be able.  Blind or no, an inner moisture, dark.  We speak of eerie streets at night, that obscure mist.  Even like that, lamp posts and all, in there, inner chambers, as if the heart were made of rooms, but inside out, in other words.  A cavern of the outside, shrouded in nightmist, my dank heart.  Without my glasses I am blind.  These are the lights I speak of.  Vague indeterminate orbs.  Still I could map my way.  Even now, were you to plague me, or stand me in a corner of the night’s cold rain, I have no doubts.  For maps are made by walking.  No one sees.

I can find you.


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8 thoughts on “Mythmapping

"A word is a bridge thrown between myself and an other - a territory shared by both" - M. Bakhtin

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