A perfection of my own

In a way, I gave up on my chances. For a time, life was about perfection,
which was tantamount to the good of the great Athenian. And even if not,
there’s always been a perfect body, perfect job, perfect family, with a wife
and kids—you know, all those things to accomplish before the expiration
date is over. But years later, I realised that perfection truly does take time.
After forty-seven years, apart from a mailbox full of advertising messages,
newsletters, and the occasional Viagra spam, I have only become perfectly
forgettable.

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