Friday, 15 April 2011


Perfect controls, perfect subdues, perfect is owned, he doesn't want you. He looks up their skirts and dribbles on their croquet sticks. He. Is. A lie.
Perfect wanders among the birds at sugarcandy mountain, he eats cucumber sandwiches in gay bars. He abuses donkeys and he twiddles his whiskers. He doesn't exist. So why do we want him?
Perfect is loving, honest and kind, perfect forgives and is easy to mind. Perfect is warm, and cold, and hot, he cooks dinners for kings and feeds them to street urchins. Perfect. Doesn't. Exist.
Why do we seek that which is not? That which is and that which sometimes? Is not.

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