I see my reflection, uncanny and ghostlike, reflected in the window on the train from Sydney to Camberra, this becomes a text of transport, say fifteen meters between one word and another, that is a lengthening of affect across the surface of the screen, if one can believe in such discontinuities. Reading a slowdown of the vehicle for example results in a decrease of the distance, which now, as we pull into Campbelltown, approaches a one-to-one mapping, within a magnitude or so, of the size of your screen, the merely-human, so to speak, collapsed upon the semi-rural townships visible here just before and after arrival at this intermediary point.

Half the time I want to look out the window, half the time type and time is another factor, the concrete lag between the writing and sending of this message, which depends on a concrete connection between machine and wire, perhaps not for minutes, hours, days. And time is another factor, as this broad day slips by, the train speeds again, and the increase results in a pulling of the landscape past the window at a higher and higher rate of speed.

In a manner similar to that of foundering theory, subjectivity tends towards a rather problematic expansion and desperate search so that the mapping becomes something which, later we will find, approaches the planetary, this small occasion of the universe; there's not even bush present and accounted for just yet, but I can imagine the vastness of space, the weakness of our connection, in spite of our embeddedness, to the cosmos as an ungraspable w/hole.

Help help we're lost in the Cosmos I say to the 89-year-old man sitting next to me as we leave Campbelltown, and he replies

"Thus 'is there a subject without a mirror,' a question that appears in a related form in the marginal notes written in my second-hand copy of Elizabeth Grosz' Volatile Bodies, might be answered in this fashion by an enormous exhalation that one could (if so inclined) liken to a system of resonances produced precisely through protocols and hyper- links across the Internet."

"Now we're a good third of the way there," I reply, the sky beginning to cloud over this landscape of rolling hills, occasional industry, fields giving way to bush, bush to fields, some cows feeding at a water trough, telegraph wires and four trees in a line.