Where I live there is no night, there is no day and there is no hope. There is only the dreariness of boredom and repetition wrapped in exotic beauty that long lost its appeal and innocence in perfection. God packed up his things and left thousands of years ago, without leaving a forwarding address or paying his last months rent. Even he knew that you can get enough of a good thing. How long have I been here? I don't really remember, but it has been so long that my memories are starting to recycle themselves, leaving me wondering if it really happened or is my memory playing tricks on me? It is hard to be sure when everything is so perfect. I have walked the same path each day for as long as I can remember, feeling the thick grass beneath my feet and yet I have not worn a path. The grass remains the same, pristine and new as if my feet never touched it. Perfection is immeasurably inferior to the quest to attain it. It is a seamless wall of whiteness without a vanishing point, without a horizon, without a flaw and that is why it can't be final destination because the journey to reach it will forever overshadow it.