People can find perfectness in imperfection and be content with it. But why is it that I can find a problem in perfection and it eat & gnaw at me until dealt with?
Something's wrong, something's definitely wrong, but what is it? I'm not sure. Oh, goodness, why is it bothering me now?
I can express perfection, express imperfection, though I don't get that feeling of me putting up a facade. And yet I yet that feeling now.
This place is great, recluse, sure, but sweet nearly to completeness. And yet, I find there is problem in perfectness.