Superman has explained to me that I am a white person, he did this using a handy yet hilarious list, this has nothing to do with typewriters or maps.
I keep thinking about maps and all those mad explorers who perished because they followed valleys instead of ridges. Those mad explorers searching for an inland sea. The rivers must run for a reason but I 'm yet to figure it out, gravity doesn't hold much sway with me and the earth might after all be flat or hollow or floating madly in space like a moth at a light.
I've been exploring my explorations. I've got my maps pinned neatly to the wall, my religious green texta ritual highlighting and reducing my stepping thoughts. I'll photograph those maps one day and take out all the lines to see what shape I'm making on this earth but for now it closes my day and stains my fingers.
You can stare at the maps for hours and nothing will be revealed to you. There is no evidence of thought or dress or the rhythm of my footsteps, annotation is not my intention. Its the bare lines of being, things do not always end with revelations.