My fingers are tense from pressing the ruler against paper, just before the lead of my newly-sharpened pencil makes a clean, sweeping line across this page. From atop stools I come up with magnificent, sweeping lines that fly straight as arrows, and yet I never hit the target, the red dot. I never seem to cut the apple in half. I can’t. No one can. No one is perfect, precision inexistent. It’s just an idea given to us by scientists, by mathematicians. They say the perfect face must have perfect measurements, must possess that magic number that defines real beauty. Wails of the Flaming Lips, lips as red as white snow, oh you know it. As for me, lines of missing sleep drawn under eyes, laugh lines carved in so deep you’d mistake them for loneliness, this is the perfect face, well, we all possess it, forget the measurements, because it’s everything we are, reflected.
And then there was you…
PS. I’m now making postcards. Send me your address and I’ll send you one via snail mail. They are nice and colourful, but some are black and white, too. And a lot of them are brown.
