Not an invitation to see more, but otherwise. Ahead of its time, long before the world discovered itself global, the philosopher Michel Foucault acknowledged to writing a decisive responsibility: to strip of claim the will to know something radically different from ourselves, showing how this illusion arises only from an error of perspective. Wherever we move on, we never go out of our mental categories, we can't help but assume our cultural archive: in a word, our language. 

If there is a terra incognita indeed, it is within us and, getting therefore, the global man needs to know  through a new way of traveling. A travel along boundary lines not so much geographical, as metaphysical, between the known and the unknown, between to go and to return, through thresholds  which redraw themselves from time to time, depending on the depth of our gaze, or acuity of our listening, of our smell and taste. It's true. We will always find the footsteps of someone who has preceded, although no one has ever managed to pronounce the last word. So let's take it with philosophy: the truth is an achievement that belongs to us alone, inhabitants of the time. Brave readers, as tireless travelers, looking for a word that is untainted by the banality of today and smiles every fad.