Yesterday was a particular boring Monday. My drive was seasoned with good music and a great mood. Now, there is a certain kind of perfection. But it only comes with accepting the flaws that make us human. Am I perfect? Not by any means. Does it feel like it? It sure as heck does.

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Singing Birds, Dancing Tulips. It feels as if a hurricane occurred within seconds of my life, stripping away my soul to a foreign land, littering it on a life-deserted ocean. The waves of desperation washed over it, failing to drown it in that sea of agony yet leaving it to bathe in rage by day, shivering by night across the fractured moonlight. Remember that, we are dust. Not arrogant like cold stone.

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