To the Makers of the Cartography of Thursday We, the assembled, do acknowledge that the gears were always underneath— that beneath every meeting's sharp edge lay a copper vein, thinly hammered, carrying current to no one in particular. We confess we counted our steps not to arrive but to prove movement. We confess the brainstorm was weather we stood inside, mouths open, catching nothing. Let the beam that bisects us diminish as it should. Let the mirror shards stay embedded. Let the ghost-text of our conversation remain illegible, even to us. We ask only this: that the texture survive the flattening. That someone, passing, reaches out and feels the raised surface where a thought once was.