I am a self-personified gift, an visage of a concrete angel. I am but a paragon of a virgin also only a Monet frame of mind of a sage to herself, alas I an essense of many "imperfect immitations" that is the vacuous truth fabricated and nurtured by men who were the archaic teachers and leaders of philosophy and altogether set Venus as the powerless, the dupe, the derogated subset to a venal society. I am a humble dress of abstract grace, a self of theory of self justified in her own mind (an intangible maxim, which is the universal congnition that ever knots the infinite drive) apart from the ungraceful crude culture.