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.
