Imperfection is desirable in so many ways. A child cannot survive a perfect parent, because a perfect parent is impossible. A perfect parent is a lie. A perfect person is a lie. Perfection is never true, unless we live in a kind of a machine; in which case we would quickly discover that perfection has cracks in it. Scuffs, weird moments, oddly striking almost ugly profiles or face-ons.
You can’t get turned on by perfection. Perfection could never move, and perfection could never tolerate me, or you. Imperfection is so very desirable, so close to ugliness can even be extraordinarily sensuous, alive to pleasure when perfection can only remain transfixed by its own beauty: narcissus, frightened of a hair falling out of place.