There is a geography of the inner world, there are places you recognise, places that you revisit, but they have no absolute location; where you find them is how you happened to get there, the path you took, or that were taken on. And finding yourself in such a place there is a little local freedom to move around, to project yourself into the limits of the scene, to view it through the figures of mind that it suggests - but only so much freedom as to make it a habitation, to make you its inhabitant, belonging to a certain here, but never to retrace the steps you took to arrive, to make sure you'll be able to find it again. You can't plant a flag and assure your return, the degree to which getting there depends on you is almost nil. You walked but the landscape moved too, deceptively matching the rhythm of your steps, but in its own way. This is why in dreams you are always in transit, moving from scene to scene, and why you can never return to the same room, the same house, the same street or park, and yet are always arriving somewhere familiar. And it is because of this strange arrival that you know you can never know yourself, because only when you have arrived in a place you failed at first to recall do you, so easily, take up again the life that was suspended there.