What is perfect is directly before me. It is my entire life, inasmuch as my entire life can be captured, reviewed, revered, or processed now. And yet, this small room, with its heaving stacks of papers and leaning rows of books; its small daybed, brown with rust-colored and yellow flowers and reeds; its packed and unclosable cupboards — how does this unroomy, untidy room become my life? And what of the body in this room on a late June afternoon, typing, sweating, clad only in shorts, trim but for an extra fold around the middle? What of this body, not too tan though summer is already underway, this body in its late thirties, with thin blond hair gently loosening over the years at the topknot, till a pink rose of flesh peeks through the tufts? This trustworthy, frightening body, that can walk me ten miles, squirm with ecstasy, dance and swim — and yet fold shut at the throat with allergy, squeeze with unseen pincers its own nerves extending from vertebrae which may slip with a lift, or twist in innocent sleep? This demanding, demanding body that will sing and perk for sex with any pretty woman passing by, and that, once denied, will shout for superfluous suppers and desserts? Well, the body is in the room, too.