This is down the rabbit hole,

We lose ourselves in perfection.

Not our perfection on a perfectional truth but more along our own interpreted or learned response.

These words must come out

For we know perfection but we somehow can’t live up to it.

I know perfection and I cannot live up to it.

(This is the future. A poem written by auto-suggestion based on things I’ve typed in the past. It sounds like me but it isn’t. Does that make it soul-less?)