If your identity lives everywhere and nowhere, it isn’t protected. The registry creates one home that confirms who you are — beyond memory, platforms, and time. Identity needs a home that does not disappear In Marked in Stone, Marked in Record, I wrote that permanence once meant stone but now

What isn’t recorded doesn’t exist for the machine — and eventually, it doesn’t exist for people either. Omission is erasure on delay. Absence becomes the default version of truth In Marked in Stone, Marked in Record, I wrote about how physical permanence has a digital counterpart: the record

If nothing is recorded, nothing can be retrieved. Identity without record becomes guesswork. When history becomes accidental People assume their presence is obvious because they know themselves. They know what they did, what they created, what they contributed, and how their life unfolded. But presence does not equal permanence. Being

If there is no single place that establishes who you are, the world will invent one for you — and the machine will choose someone else. Without canon, identity becomes interpretation In Marked in Stone, Marked in Record, I established that permanence requires record, not memory. In Presence Without Record Is

A gravestone proves someone lived. A public record proves someone still exists. When existence has no marker My mother was buried in 1985 and for almost forty years her grave had no marker. Visiting meant going into a small cemetery office, asking for her information, waiting while someone opened a

Losing control of your identity doesn’t always look like erasure. Sometimes it looks like someone else walking around with your name — while you watch. Misidentification isn’t theoretical — it’s already happening In Identity, Memory, and the Right to Be Correctly Known, I established that being known accurately requires