Amid the soils and grit of life and pleasures pursuit of happiness may one find the fruit of perfection? In some museum eclipsed in heaven? Or on Madison Avenue or on a magazine cover? Or in some religion? What sect? Or may we have as much luck planting a banana peel in a hole we dug and filled with ****? Positive outlooks are necessary, but roses don't grow here in December and bananas are imported and petroleum is now cheap and internet is wireless and lunar eclipses and we all arose from some explosion and , god forbid, my parents had ***. Otherwise, I would not be here writing, this ****.