prose with cartographic imagery.

When tectonic plates break and continents dissolve, whose duty is it to name and classify the once familiar now thrown into a game of Boggle that spells farce, hope, and the unknown ahead? Any major dude with half a sense of the human condition can expect gerrymandering and the inevitable upsets, but even as you charter the unknown with surveying tools less adequate than you believe, you still have doubt when you drag the pencil on paper.

Certainly no maps lie unfinished when the invisible pressure of the nebulous interpersonal forces bring you to your knees. As for myself, I would subscribe to and collect any steel magazines that would put you in peril. The nerves that reside in my spinal column would silently instruct me to stand upright, for I am in the presence of an aspect of the divine whose beacon I cannot fathom but must understand. These are more than just mere sentiments, they are marching orders over a dense forest, lush with wildlife, both tangible and simple manifestations of fear spun into yarns that panic anyone who might let this undesirable linen get the best of their peripheral vision.

Yet even if the turmoil subsides and you march upon the Northwest Passage, and you return in glory with ticker-tape parades and front-page articles... if life has taught you anything it is that nothing you have drawn can ever be a certainty. It makes you wonder why you draw maps at all sometimes, and why even with their seeming futility you can't help but keep your pencil sharpened.