In this land, what arrows fly, in a way to define by the cirumference. What maps are made? Strange topographies, projections that are, in their own, projections. No one knows me, I remind myself. What arrows fly, strange topographies. As they speak to me, so many distances remain. No one knows me, I am reminded, not even me, I find myself thinking. There may be a record here, and that may be how I will know. But no one knows me, not even my own consciousness. Will I look forever, art become science, cartographies? In the images and words, even in my own conciousness, under the spell of so many, yet no one knows me.