It only takes a few days to mold out perfection sometimes. I suppose it's because i've been doing this so long. I want to stop though, I don't like perfection anymore.
My name is unimportant, because if you're reading this, you know who I am. You know what i've done. but you don't know where I am. And you're standing here wondering where the fuck I'm hiding, how I have escaped you. You have not found my body, but I assure you that I am dead.
As a sculptor, I have perfected the art of reproducing the human body in its perfect form. Lean, healthy, strong. But as a human, I am terribly flawed. I am an underweight, balding, bespectacled and overall, I am an unpleasant to be gazed upon or to be associated with. This, however, does not irritate me in any way. I am the true form of perfection because we all believe we cannot attain perfection, but I have. Not in myself, no, my self has attained reality and I am overjoyed with that. I have become perfect in my ability to
both create and destroy. But I am not putting pen to paper to write about my self or my PERFECTION.
I am here, doing this to talk about you.
I am here and not ten feet from me is the body of some prominent fool who associated with me (who swallowed his disgust) to gain the greater glory he considered wealth. He sinned in the sight of MY perfection. My perfection demanded his death to regain its glory.
But let me explain to you, oh ignorant fool. He was a leech. He tried to convince that mass-producing copies of my priceless (my PERFECT) works would bring the light of my perfection to the lives of so many others. He said it would make the world lighter and brighter and filled with more love. He tried to tell me that all of this would go on, and I would have to do nothing. I felt nervous, I argued with him, I wanted these copies made under my perfection-making eye. He said that building a privately operated system would cost too much. He said that everything would be fine. I persisted and he relented. I was overjoyed for the months afterward. I watched my perfection-making machines come to life. And when it came time to make the first mold of my perfect work, I watched in joyous anticipation.
It was like an exoskeleton of silky black. A shining vaccu-form mold. Looking back, I see it as an ominous sign, a warning from God. And as the machines made and remade that which I had created so long ago, a copy of a copy of the perfect symbolization of what God chose for us, I began to detest these foolish things. I began to hate HIM, the bastard who had set this all up. He had a new car, new girlfriends. I realized I had been taken advantage of.
Nobody takes advantage of me.
Of course, you figured out that much of the "what" and now you know the "why". You see him laying on the floor staining the floors with his life. You see the hammer I used. But you want to know why there's a fresh sculpture of a man standing there. His arms stretched apart, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open in an expression of agony/joy. You might even recognize it as my sculpture "Christ Without A Cross". It's not there yet, of course, no, not when I'm writing it.
I will put down this pen, and I will climb into the two-piece mold of this amazing creation, this amazing thing of perfection. I will make it ever more an object of PERFECTION. I Will combine the reality of my self with the PERFECTION of the creation's form. And when that happens, I will be God.