there is no such thing

as perfection when

it comes to art.


as imperfects, we

resonate with incomplete

sketches and wayward blotches.


unfitting words bring

us to life and missing notes

make our hearts dance.


perfect art is uninspiring, and

leaves no room

for contribution.


perfect art is a contempt

of our existence and reassurance

of our uselessness.


perfect art is nirvana.

it is for the gods, and we

are merely scums.


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