The Thirty-Fifth Setting of Perfection

I put the last of the waffle into my orifice - it was the least I could do, my body needed food to continue the reconstruction of my waistline. Rewind five days ago ... I was sitting in the garden shed, actually, I had just fallen, after I skidded on a snail - luckily, I survived, the snail was not so fortunate. Yet when I looked at the smeared mollusc, just a collection of skin and mucus like snot on a wooden canvas, I couldn't help but feel in some way that was my fate. Then it occurred to me that I must seek perfection, perfection in everything I do, everything I say, everything, everything, it had to be ... then I went to McDonalds to get a Big Mac meal, it was nice, but the rest of the day was rather uneventful to say the least, the last thing I remember was hitting my head against the toilet when I went to pee the whiskey out of my system.

Perfection is something that cannot be understated, a prefabulated armature upon which the sordid stink of ugly imperfection wraps itself like a rancid, dying, horny beast, eager to pump its incestuous filth seed to preserve what is left of its disgusting self. But I digress. The paper was bare as babies' buttocks. I hadn't made a single mark, except for invisible strokes in the air to mimic my thoughts, which were really nothing, but empty gestures, and I waved the pen like a feather duster, pumping the dust back and forth in my mind. This is perfection, my thoughts are perfectly so. It was, as perfect as you could get. So much so. So there.

Then something. First, like a rattling of the old branches in my neurons. Then bigger, a tremor that shakes everything, knocking old memories off the shelves. The distant sound of a steam whistle shortly followed by a turbo-charged locomotive, rip-rip-ripping apart the ample emptiness of uninspiration. My brain screams, I can taste twisted, frictioned steel, that's what I long for, sharp and lethal to pierce my numbness. Something. It wants to become. A crazy assemblage of concrete vagueness. That is it. The thirty-fifth setting of perfection. I found it at last. The snail was right.

Just before the snail died, it wondered what it was like to be me. Then it found out.