Today I picture my identity as a quiet archive of distinct “orthants” — discrete chambers of thought that never trespass on one another yet hum with their own internal script. Each chamber speaks in a single orientation of strokes, like a page ruled at a private angle. Together, the pages assemble into a legible atlas of separations and affinities: islands of attention placed with care, uniformly porous, and bound by restraint. Nothing is filled; all meaning rides on cadence, spacing, and direction — a scriptorium of orthants whose voices are parallel within and harmonized across the field.