I'd won the world, but like a forsaken explorer, I'd lost my map.

I have been lost in a river of shut doors.

I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.

I was a mouse, searching for its cheddar trap.

For this reason, I can book a room in a Hilton, or its terrible playfellow, The Holiday Inn, though I never know what city I'm in when I wake up. I have lost my map.

Nothing will tell you where you are. Each moment is a place you've never been. You can walk believing you cast a light around you. But how will you know? The present is always dark. Its maps are black, rising fom nothing, describing in their slow ascent into themselves, their own voyage, its emptiness, the black, temperate necessity of its completion. As they rise into being they are like breath. And if they are studied at all, it is only to find, too late, what you thought were concerns of yours do not exist. Your house is not marked on any of them, nor are your friends, waiting for you to appear, nor are your enemies, listing your faults. Only you are there, saying hello to what you will be, and the black grass is holding up the black stars.

Not all those who wander are lost.

And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now, I am myself, counting this row and that row of moccasins waiting on the silent shelf.

Not til we are lost do we begin to find ourselves.

If you don't care where you are, then you aren't lost.