It always starts this way, with a map. There are no city demarcations, no windrose, no landmarks labeled for recognition. It is a map pocked with lives and words, transcribed in coincidence and happenstance, and it is the map we imagine will lead us to treasure. Without translation, or a legend of any kind, there is no way to know what the clues indicate or, indeed, if there are any clues to be followed at all.
Let’s have it out now: it begins with a map unmarked. We paint its dead ends in our own blood and exhausted hopes. We designate capitols and draw the borders with time, and we follow blindly stars for which there are no charts. Inevitably we are led to the same destination; all roads here belong to no one. There is no treasure, there is only the hope for one which sustains us.