Nothing that lives is perfect. Though that which dies can be.
Fixed. Unchanging. Complete.
The pen runs out of ink. The final period on the final page. Only now can the story be shared. Every book, then an obituary. And when you find that told a thousand times, by a thousand tongues, the story is different every time? What then? Did you die a thousand deaths? Live a thousand lives? Is nothing true or is everything?