We hear how what we want is perfection but I say that isn't true. Perfection is fine for a god or if you live in a dream but I am made of meat. My ideas are bloody and dark, and I look at the world with a view that isn't what it seems. But it is complete with zippers and scars.
Perfection is a false god, and one who will never be. I want dreams I can realize. Because I am nothing but me, nothing except me. I am composed of meat and failed dreams and only there am I a God, in my precious sleep, for the time I spend in dream.
