Here2011/I

Storyteller:
The light captain travels the land as points of light. His voyage is possessed the effortless speed of planetary orbit. He makes it possible to slip into darkness like slamming a door. His maps are like snapshots taken in cruel flashes of light. There's no room for ambiguity. The world exists in sharp plains. Mountains cast no shadows. Trees stand as still as dead stones.

Storyteller:
Sometimes he had with him his daughter, who looked only to the sides and never straight ahead. She missed the many slashes of land her father captured and froze. At night, around the fire, she drew her own maps, like a tunnel. Sky at the end, land down the sides. To the captain these were near simpleton drawings. She may as well have been screwing clouds into jars.