You could take Brazil in an afternoon, sure. Knock yerself out, call me when yr done, etc. Consider that continent's arc: it's gesturing across the Atlantic, towards Ghana, or was it Côte d'Ivoire, or both? — you decide, call me when it's done. Let us speak of it forever, or more. Speak of vast hillsides slipping into a river, the minute sunsets, postcards, babies, paperbacks: everything at once, yet nothing at all to remember or recall, situated as you are inside a hand-drawn map of Minas Gerais, weeping over Nascimento's 'Os Povos'. Your ... move, perhaps? Vast as a view across an ocean, invisible strings, dotted lines stretched out: sewing the imaginary gap shut. Stick figures tumble overboard; waves do nothing but leer, their foamy peaks a bit like tankards raised in empty bars (by persons 'sketchy', you add, but then why bother? The effect has already been achieved, its correspondances noted. AO.