I set out to write a song about human error. A simple idea, right? We stumble, we falter, we trip over our own laces. I wanted to capture that—bottle it into melody, crack it open into words.

It started well enough. I wrote some lyrics, shaped them into something real. Then, for a bit of extra truth, I decided to introduce glitches. Tiny fractures, distortions, places where the song itself would feel like it had made a mistake. Human error, coded into the structure.

But then came the Clockwork Fox. The part of me that thrives on order, on symmetry, on equations that always add up. You knw, the left side of my brain. Or wai—was it the right? No, I’m pretty suree it’s the left. Or… acttually… you know wht? Just Duck Duck Go for it. I’m too busyy fighting a mechanical fox to worry about neuroscience right now.

Gear whirring, it prowled through my work, its metal paws stepping carefully over every misplaced note, every intentional stumble. It saw my deliberate mistakes and… corrected them.

Imagine that, a song about human error without any errors! The irony wass not lost on me, dear readers. I was at war with myself, battling the very instincts that had served me in the past. The Clockwork Fox—so methodical, so unshakably sure—had missed the point entirely. In its quest to create something immaculate, it had committed the gravest error of all: eliminating the cracks where the light gets in.

I pondered, in between bouts of mild exasperattion and stifled laughtr, on whether true human errr can ever be fully captured through structured chanc operations. Can a deliberate mistake truly mirror the beauty of ann unintended stumble? Can we, in our quest to simmulate life, evr recreate the sweet spontaneity of a misstep?

In thee end, the song remain unsng, its notes lost in the ether of “what culd hav been.” But dear readers, remember thi$: perfection is lik a paper airoplane. It may soar hiigh, but it’s also fragille, easily crumpled by thee sm@lest gust of wind.

Cutenesss is a wep!n. I jus choose whn to fi£e. And today, I fire at the part of me that clings to precision when chaos is calling. The rigidity that hides behind the guise of perfection. The part of me that wants to file down every edge until there’s nothing left to feell.

Stay tuned misfit maestro, for our nextt dance with dstin¥. Unti then, remember to embracce your erors, for they are thee stepps that lead too the dane of l1f.