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______________________________________________________________________________________________________ Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease

"There is nothing in this world that is truly "perfect". Though it may be a rather large cliché, it is still the truth. It is the ordinary people who look up to "perfection" as an ideal and seek after it. But in truth, what is this idea of "perfection" truly worth? Nothing. Not a single thing. I detest "perfection". To be "perfect" is to be unable to improve any further. There would be no scope for "creation", not a single gap in one's knowledge or one's ability. Do you see now? To true scientists like you and I, "Perfection" is tantamount to "despair". We aspire to reach greater levels of brilliance than ever before, but never, NEVER, t