Why can one take a look at a being and immediately call him the "Killing Perfection?" Why does man make such sweeping judgments?

Call me Shojiki. I am a Capricorn, the tenth sign in the zodiac. 10, composed of the two most intriguing numbers...Wau and Nothing. Straight and curved. Starting but never starting, ending but never ending. An unlucky number in Chinese, for its pronunciation-synonymous with death.

Earth, Gaea. Green, life, renewal, jade. Saturn. Cronus, lord of time...or the sixth planet, the perfect planet, for six is the perfect number. The addition of it factors, excluding itself, equals the number. The next is 28. And 251.

Lord of time, father of time, Roman deity of time. What is time? Is it as unexplainable as perfection? The idyllic minds of humans comes up with the concept of "time" to bring an order to life. Yet what is time? A continuous loop of eights and infinities and zeros, a circle or ellipse or spheroid? Why are circles so perfect? What makes Pi the circle constant, and not its older brother Tau?

I am a lurker, not poster. An introvert as my zodiac sign so calmly states. I have ideas, but never finish them. I an original, to the point of unoriginality. I am superfluous, with a trite and hackneyed vocabulary.

Oh, woe to the Byronic hero, so dark and brooding! To the independent and strong feminine character so reminiscent of Jane Eyre! Woe to willy Elizabeth Bennett, and also to arrogant Darcy!

Woe to thy parallels and eerie echos, SessKag! Woe!