Perfiection of desire

Robert Pinsky said he once wanted to be a jazz musician, but he no longer plays the saxophone because his drive for perfection keeps him from enjoying music. He won't even allow a piano in the house.

I think of my neighbor's piano taking up half his living space, and the importance of objects and desire as a noun, both abstract and capitalized, full of endless distances. He talks of Paris and I mistrust it. Too many broken promises. A delicate pattern emerges. We reach under each other's façade, each knows the other better than the self. The mask of attention slips, how do we get closer to what is inherently human?