Every house should have a pit of bones beneath the floor, a frame of cobwebs around a door, a time of haunting in faded lore. Every person should have a shameful memory to keep within, a crooked leg, with mottled shin, a secret waiting in alley dim. Why?... To lend a sound humility, to spark artistic empathy, to give lawful due to entropy, to keep it all above the board. But most of all, because perfection is an open sore.