9 march

Perfection is dead. It is by nature embalmed and atrophied, cold clean and hard as a military cadaver. This is why i could not have loved you. I needed unperfection, a Beautiful of flawed brilliance and not perfect unpocked staleness. There is a softness and whiteness to undiagrammed defectiveness that you cannot, cannot embody; a harmonious dissonance to too many colors and too many sounds. I do not wish for what i have been trained to embrace: not of spite or of fear but of pure unadulterated preference. This is why, O Great Looming Other, i could never, ever have loved you.