In light of recent developments in the field of cosmetic surgery, I have been updating my vision of the perfect man - rendered in the medium of collage, and comprising of images cut from Literati Monthly, Crawford's Tweeds Catalogue [1977 edition], and old back issues of Melody Maker.
Combined and pasted to a board, the perfect man is now a horrifying amalgamation of handlebar moustache and cauliflower ear. Aside from that, I have also discovered that Jack Kerouac's 38-year-old nose does not work well with Bob Dylan's 23-year-old hair.
The perfect man now lies concealed at the back of my wardrobe, covered with a coat, his image haunting my nightmares, rapidly increasing my heartbeat and adrenaline levels, widening my eyes, parting my lips, soaking the bed sheets in "perspiration".