THE PERFECTION, page 1

His hart beat like the hart of a dead man.
He glanced toward his watch but didn't have the will to actually look at it. Time was everything, from the beginning of life that was what we based our lives off of. Papers shuffled like dead leaves in the summer wind, a mist, a fragrance, none of that mattered, now it was all work and live, if you could say that.
His whole life working to stay alive, to keep in the business, he never stopped to think about were it was taking him, or what might come next. A traveling man, from the market to the post office, truly enduring and rigorous.
He was born an innocent soul, a vile human like nature. Like ink falling from a leaking pen onto a carefully sought after resume, but we don't stop the ink, we let it fall, and then clean it up. It wasn't just the Salesman who lived in this fashion, and was born in this fashion, but all of us.
He wanted to be perfect, perfect car, perfect car keys, perfect blender, round like time the blender went, never slowing, never tiring, never stopping to watch the birds, or to move at the speed of life and watch for the snail he thought was just a peanut shell, until of coarse he had his shoes waxed immediately. But there was one thing that wasn't perfect, perfect in every way, un perfect by nature, he never stopped to think that maybe it was perfect in its own way, or that possibly it was perfectly imperfect, he couldn't stand to live with this thing, that slept with him, and lied with him, and killed with him, the only thing not perfect, he would die than have this burden, it was himself, and every other last Human on Earth. It was himself.

He had forgotten how to cry, lost within a distant memory of obsessive remorse, constantly, and so he went numb. Possibly the rain is there to help these people, to help fill there eyes with this glorious emotion, but, they turn there backs on it, not understanding that it there to feed them, to help soak them in its abundance of life. The Sky Was Falling That Night if you could say so in such away. And his perfectly strung umbrella un-strapped delicately, he walked to his car, he ignored the presents of splashes and puddles, he thought them merely as shoe polishers.
Sex to him was as a jelly roll, it taste good but there's nothing in the middle, with his absents of sadness the emotion of love could not be fed, he could feel anger however, but anger is not real, it is a creation designed by mans natural behavior.
Dry humor was gone, only being used to it and recognizing it kept him on the same track as the others, he though it was the American dream. He had no favorites really, he liked pickles, he likes onion, he liked to taste, but still he was empty.
He did however, ponder over feeling, not by soul, but why pain didn't bother him anymore, because he knew what it was and would accept it, it never really bothered him.

He may seem like an old grumpy basterd, but in truth, what is in mind and appearance differ immensely, loved by friends, family. In fact, he didn't even know what was happening to him, perfection was his drug, it transfixed him, bringing him lower and yet mentally higher.

The Surrealist