“During the past few years I had come to understand that there were two kinds of perfection. The first was the natural cycle in which we live, where things rise and fall like the changing of the tides; a perfection which nevertheless contained death, putrefaction and filth. The second, an imaginary place that was created perfect and sentenced to remain so in an impermanent world, as clear and brittle as glass, for the ideal was a place, a locus, even when its template applied to living beings.”
