So many people are like, 'I'm perfect.' I'm so imperfect; that's why I'm able to let everything out and let people see everything. 'Cause I'm just a mess like every other person that's a mess out there.
Beauty is perfect in its imperfections, so you just have to go with the imperfections.
Everything is perfect in the universe - even your desire to improve it.
A lot of times, in the beginning of my career, I put pressure on myself just because I wanted to perform so well. I just wanted to be perfect.
Doesn't assuming that an intelligence created these perfect conditions require far less faith than believing that a life-sustaining Earth just happened to beat the inconceivable odds to come into being?
In theory there is a possibility of perfect happiness: To believe in the indestructible element within one, and not to strive towards it.
Perfect behavior is born of complete indifference.
In the late '70s I started to search for the perfect sound - whatever that might be, before that I was mainly interested in drugs, insanity and the rock'n'roll lifestyle.
When goods are digital, they can be replicated with perfect quality at nearly zero cost, and they can be delivered almost instantaneously. Welcome to the economics of abundance.
When you've been locked up in a mental institution, people are going to ask questions. It was OK, because I didn't have to act perfect all the time.
Conscience is the perfect interpreter of life.
Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve. It is a perfect maze of intrigue.
If we are not careful, we will convey the message that investigators have to be perfect. Not true!
I'm not perfect. I am not Iron Man.
Life is that perfect fine line between ironies.
Perfect is boring: Beauty is irregular.
Kind 'Guardian' readers have been forwarding me round robin Christmas newsletters for years now: lengthy missives full of perfect children, exotic holidays, talented pets and endless, tedious detail. The notes that accompanied them revealed they had inspired in the original recipients everything from mild irritation to absolute rage.
After all, C++ isn't a perfect match for Java's design aims either.
The perfect joys of heaven do not satisfy the cravings of nature.
And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.
