The perfect woman.
Perfect bodies, perfect minds, perfect gods. To my friends Lena and Clara. And Evan. And their kids.
What is that, perfection? A sculpture by Praxiteles, Phidias, Buonarroti, Henri Moore? A painting by Leonardo? An anatomic illustration by Calgar? One shell, one flower, a bird? A star?
A lost bone of one thousand years man, of a dinosaur, of a mammoth?
A body staying on a beach, waiting for cancer?
An illuminated mind available to proffer an universal physical law? A poet, a philosopher?
Do you think it about you? That you are perfect?
There is no perfection on the universe. The most imperfect had been gods.
Run by your perfection. It, she or he may be beside you. That’s the perfection, the one yours. Fake to everyone else.
Because it, she or he doesn’t exist outside you and your mind.
Perfection stays on your mind, inside it. And doesn’t may go away out.
And… is this, and nothing more, the perfection.
That’s the sense of my perfect woman. Nobody, better then me, knows she is not the perfection. She is my woman. And that is my peace.
The search for perfection is medica res. Or morbid mind’s anatomy.
About the woman who had lived searching for a god.
Perfect bodies, perfect minds, perfect gods. To my friends Lena and Clara. And Evan. And their kids.
What is that, perfection? A sculpture by Praxiteles, Phidias, Buonarroti, Henri Moore? A painting by Leonardo? An anatomic illustration by Calgar? One shell, one flower, a bird? A star?
A lost bone of one thousand years man, of a dinosaur, of a mammoth?
A body staying on a beach, waiting for cancer?
An illuminated mind available to proffer an universal physical law? A poet, a philosopher?
Do you think it about you? That you are perfect?
There is no perfection on the universe. The most imperfect had been gods.
Run by your perfection. It, she or he may be beside you. That’s the perfection, the one yours. Fake to everyone else.
Because it, she or he doesn’t exist outside you and your mind.
Perfection stays on your mind, inside it. And doesn’t may go away out.
And… is this, and nothing more, the perfection.
That’s the sense of my perfect woman. Nobody, better then me, knows she is not the perfection. She is my woman. And that is my peace.
The search for perfection is medica res. Or morbid mind’s anatomy.
About the woman who had lived searching for a god.
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