I navigated without maps or precise schedules. I intuited that genuine cartography is hidden, invisible to hours and routes. I allowed myself to be swept along as if my body were blank. I eschewed directions and travel times. I understood that no one awaits a true traveler, that I was alone. Day and night were contained within me. I looked at my hands and understood heredity. I understood how the rhythm of a heart devoid of armor creates a map, imprecise yet full of remembrance and discoveries, like entering a secret.

[T]o translate the memory of what, precisely, did not take place, of what, having been (the) forbidden, ought, nevertheless, to have left a trace, a specter, the phantomatic body, the phantom-member – palpable, painful, but hardly legible – of traces, marks, and scars.