imperfect raze in "the virgin and the garden", a.s. byatt wrote: "there was a boy, a chess player, once, who revealed that his gift consisted partly in a clear inner vision of potential moves of each piece as objects with flashing or moving tails of coloured light: he saw a live possible pattern of potential moves and selected them according to which ones made the pattern strongest, the tensions greatest. his mistakes were made when he selected not the toughest, but the most beautiful lines of light." tonight, someone you love beyond words says the most perfect thing is rarely the thing with the most heart. and you think about how true that is. how much time we waste chasing perfection, when whatever meaning there is to be mined from being alive exists not in curated moments stripped of their scars, but in the mud and mess of this. here. now. when you feel as faulty and as flawed as a friction match without a flame to call its own, you lean into the light. it doesn't ask to brighten your dark corners. let it know you anyway. 260331 what's it to you? who go blather from