I'll try to create an image of this convex feeling.

It's imperfections on a perfect painting,
Or dull colours in the sky on a beautiful day,
Or roughly shaven, golden stubble, with a part too long.

It's the sound of loneliness in a room full of extroverts,
A fire alarm blaring through a heavy metal concert.

The taste of strepsil.

Can't I decay while I progress? I want to go somewhere, and I know where, I'm helpless, since I know how to help myself, but don't want or need.