We have before us a certificate, which, in turn, carries with it, a second use, that of identification document. To certify is to provide certainty, to grant assurance, to give proof of life, in this case to the Nation-State, that of Ecuador. The proper names of the bearer appear in the document as, neither more, nor less, than “Moritz Martin Thomsen Titus.” Underneath this line, which clamors for first and last names, we find another, which establishes nationality, visa, reg. no. Balanced above this space we find “American, ingt, 08 426” and other numbers barely seen in the corner of the ID-style photograph of an adult with grayish hair and a grim visage. Ingt: inmigrante (immigrant)? Integrante (member)? Ingeniero técnico (technical engineer)? Ingrato (ingrate)? Above the line that reads “authorized activity” one reads: “Agricultor” (agriculturist), even though the photograph betrays neither the aloofness of a potentate nor the appearance of a peasant. And besides, we suspect, in any case, that this inmigrante/integrante/ingrato does not abide by own participation in the scene of the document; that he feels bothered and debilitated by this role, this script, which hardens and will later become THIS paper, this document, this identity, this census certificate. Census comes from sensus, from survey and also from censorship: a craft of surveyors, a ship of censors. We see in the photograph that the man, whitish hair, foreign name, resents the census. And why not? His face has been crossed, marked by the seal of that institution, of migration, of headquarters. The whole right side of his face is covered over by a fragment of the word “migración,” his right eye is blinded by the letter G. Once again, we see, associated to this man the letters “I,G,R.” Ignorant, grave, ingrate. Always gratitude, or lack thereof. Grace and disgrace, gratefulness and ingratitude battle in this face, in this gaze. Moritz Martin Thomsen Titus growls before a forced and unbidden immortality and identity. His face has been stamped by the nation, his gaze invaded by the ink of the Foreign Office. Next to the line that states the legitimacy of his legal residency in the Republic, which makes him submit to that stone silence it says: “valid visa” but it could well refer to the value of his life, or of his vision, both reason enough to “GR,” to protest before that grotesque usurpation, that invasion of a life by means of letters. And right next to that, in a space expressly prepared beforehand to describe the condition of a visa, a view, a voyage, valor, we read: “INDEFINIDA” (indefinite). Without definition, without end, infinite, defenseless. The permanence then, of Moritz Martin Thomsen Titus in this Visa status, this life status, the same as this document, this census certificate, this mark of his gaze, in this image, will always be indefinite, always ungrateful, always disgraced, will rest forever in the public firmament of an almost-citizenship, a pseudo-census, a proto-nation, a lost identification.