Flawless Is A Cage

Nine hundred takes and none of them released.

Every one of them was fine.

Fine is the enemy, I told myself,

and the drive filled up with fine.

I have finished almost nothing

and I have never once been wrong,

because nothing I refuse to hand over

can ever be handed back.

It calls itself a standard.

Look under the coat —

Flawless is a cage

with a lock that opens inward.

Nothing gets in, nothing gets out,

and the work dies clean and unheard.

You're not protecting the craft.

You're protecting yourself from the verdict.

Flawless is a cage.

The best thing I ever made

had a mistake at ninety seconds.

People wrote to me about that mistake.

They thought I meant it. I did not.

It was the only human second in it

and they found it in the dark.

So loosen the grip a quarter turn.

The work needs air, not armour —

Flawless is a cage,

and perfect is a place nobody lives.

Finished beats immaculate,

shipped beats spotless in a drawer.

You're not protecting the craft.

You're outrunning being seen.

Flawless is a cage.

Flawless is a cage —

so here's the door, and it's humiliating:

put out the version that embarrasses you.

Let them see the seams and the hands.

The seams are where they'll know you.

Listen to this note. It's bent. It's wrong.

It's the only thing here that's alive.