Maps are dreams: both describe desire, where you want to go, but never the reality of the destination.
“He thrust his hand at me. I have an idea I told him once again to get out of my way. I can still see the hand coming toward me, pallid, opening and closing. As if self-propelled. I do not know what happened then. But a little later, perhaps a long time later, I found him stretched on the ground, his head in a pulp. I am sorry I cannot indicate more clearly how this result was obtained, it would have been something worth reading.”
Samuel Beckett | Molloy