But how do we determine what the accurate picture is?

I meant to brag about successfully ordering takeout Indian goat, but then I came home and smashed my face into a glass door. Accidentally: I had my hands full of groceries and couldn't catch myself. I don't think I can have broken my nose or there'd have been blood everywhere, but the amount of pain and swelling is rather extraordinary to me. I look like Alec Guinness' Fagin.

At least once I could see around the icepack I was able to perceive my contributor's copies of Archaeopteryx: The Newman Journal of Ideas, including my poems "The Color of the Ghost" (Wittgenstein) and "A Find at Þingvellir" (Mjölnir). The first of these was written for my godchild, the second for my brother. The cover is the famous fossil. I approve.

I ate my goat jalfrezi anyway. It felt like a small victory. I really hope it doesn't snow until later tomorrow.