PRECISION

Precision, no matter how I'm bound to be a very shaky producer of evidences, always must remain quite epicentral in my world. I incessantly fail; in other words, I might and should concede that forms of real and monstrous erroneousness incessantly rule my activities. Despite all that (however and whenever, etc.), I would plead Perfection.
Yes -- this little bit of an attempted harangue must have some strengthy overtones of basic philosophic mumbo-jumbo. Some salient aspects very certainly involve Comparison. Insofar as my actions are horrible wobblers, they simply must be viewable as "monstrously imprecise"; however (as if on a quite different and very distinct hand), my every silly, nervous, twitchy, and otherwise doubtable and questionable way of behaving may be part of something like superdivine intricacy. Despite my many likelihoods of running into walls, or of knocking this or that item from a perhaps salient shelf, I remain, as far as we might speculate, a very set part of a very set and fate-ruled sort of universe; thus, my countless manifest mistakes and blunders almost may, on practically mythic levels of proportionality, be heroisms and godlyisms.
Yet -- what diabolically manifest idiocy and twaddle that sort of lingoizing might be proffering? Surrounded by what may be veritable oceans of potent pure fodder for fine discussion, shouldn't every ounce of me falter? I'm no hep cat! I ain't, even, hip. I don't got no couth. I sit in my corners; the lamentations shall present a sort of bill; meanwhile, any and all eagles are wonderful and almost strict.