There once was a man who
wanted to build the perfect house.

He took out paper,
and set down to design it.

Lines were drawn
and erased
and re-drawn
and re-erased;

weeks went by,
then months,
then years.

“Nothing less than perfect
will do” he said to himself.

The man grew old
and the edges of his plans
grew crinkled and stained.

Finally, the old man died
and when the people came to take away his possessions,
the sheets of paper were crumpled up
and thrown into the fire
without a second glance.