I have to resist the urge to go back, edit my previous posts to unsteady perfection. But perfection is a highly unreliable thing. What looks perfect today, will tomorrow need steroid cream. If I could do that with my whole life, running my cursor along the backward span of it, erasing, amending, refining, I suppose I’d never produce any future. I write nothing new. Oh, I got married. Two months ago, in the houses of the Christian and Hindu gods, and the house of man.