As I gaze at the tiny stick rolling perfectly on my hand, I finger it with my every finger, up and Down, at least a hundred times each. I hope so much that this will be the one-the perfect toothpick-but it never is. I don't have a problem with a imperfect toothpick, it doesn't make me angry when I peel off even a microscopic splinter, or a bump that I swear I felt, I swear. no, it actually facinetes me. Every blemish, every imperfection i find, it gives me this wonderfull sensation-oh, and it is just SO wonderfull, it's the most astonishing, exilllerating, intriguing, wonderful feeling one could ever feel...like the opposite of undescribeable, being that every word in every dictionary could discribe it...I don't know why. Sometimes, I compare them to our human civilization, I name them even sometimes, because they're just like us. There life's consist of rolling around in the palm of wonder and unanswered questions ...and they forever roll, though they may splinter or break or wither away...and the most astonishing, exilllerating, intriguing, wonderful similarity of all, is that none are perfect, and none are the same. I know, you probably find me a bit mental comparing a human to a toothpick, but really, I have yet to find a flawless one