I do not want the finished product.
I do not want your polished veneer, the facade of flawless glass.
I do not want to see a completed wooden idol, for millions to worship.
I do not want the finality of you.
I want your rough draft, your unedited script.
I want the sand, before being ignited and formed.
I want the wood chips, sweetly scented and scattered as the wind blows.
I want you, as you are, glorious and humble in your incompleteness.
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