Wrapped in a map. If you were to rest in my arms, stand close, and I were to strip away that mix of lines and colours, what would I find as you stepped out of that dress, foot by delicate foot? Is that dress by the designers at Mercator or Peters? Would I see what I’d always dreamed at night - a projection of perfection, standing in front of my very eyes? Or would I see you for what you really are - true, pure, real - not shaped by my dreams and my history, but merely you?