the tyranny of perfectionism

The Tyranny of Perfectionism

There is nourishment and shade to be found in the

mending of those gossamer threads which formerly bound

the fuse in his mouth. It sizzled in saliva. He pulled it loose with

raw squirrels and any cats he could catch, that’s why his hands

lose respect for an author when he strays into error. I am more

a word for the space we would call a room but no words

usually looked a little puzzled, like somebody trying to do arithmetic

after passing it through all the filters and chemical treatments.

I looked back and saw them coming after me with the broom.

They gazed at one another with fixed, intense smiles; their pulses

bothered by my tendency to metaphor, decidedly excessive:

try to think back and remember things about the village and the big

instrument of monastic plainness nestled in the scarlet darkness.

They awoke in a blackness so dense it would have put the fear,

grimy from having picked it up out of the dirt so many times,

together in peaceable companionship. No, none of that,

the look that comes when the truth is spoken.