We at 1000faces have chosen a quest for greatness over success...here is our recipe:

SEARCH FOR:

A love not like we have had before, but like we have always wanted.   One with the sturdiness of steal to support our dream, chipped out of ice that withstands the hottest flames we can throw at it without melting. Something of grand design, immaculate like we were told this life could be.  Cup of Excellence.  Brilliant photos of revolution and farmer.  A spider's web, infused with air and light weaved with spontaneous precision.  Reflection and twilight.

No...

Search for a perfect love, born of imperfection.  A surprising flowers kind of life.  A 'good morning my lovely' the coffee is ready for you life. A hot beverage on a dark night.  Diner coffee.  Mugs.   A life with headaches, a love that argues over movies, but still holds your hand.  A love that is at work late and there early in the morning. Staying in your arms.  The life of secrets over cherry pie and black coffee.  Laughing out loud.  Spinnning on the side of the highway.  Embarassing, awkward, limpish, gimpish, with no need for excuse me and no time for politeness, and gets messy, and sloppy, and has FUN in the doing so.  A wonderful perverse little lovely, that takes pride in the clumsy a mumsy of peanut butter and limericks.  And dances badly.

No...

Just search for love. Hard, earth, love.  Early morning cold life.  Sweat, funk, death.  Hot coffee against clenched fist.  A life of chapped lips and running noses.  Of disappointing harvest that yield nothing, yet we remain hopeful.   Make due with daises we cannot afford roses type.  Of love of give and burn, live and learn, spit and rage, and get better with age.  THAT IS WHAT WE ARE SEARCHING FOR.  A life that is up all night with tears or with secrets. Of fires in the roaster, employees paychecks running overdue.   A living that finds solace in the heartache of fighting, knowing it relents like wheat against wind and moonlight in soft apology and gentle kiss.   Not a love that needs the sunset nor weeps only from opulence, but rather in brightest day or darkest night.  Roof of steal or floor of mud.   Take shelter in our arms and my promises, take nourishment in the succulence of our lips and measure the horizon by the nearness of our gaze.  Build shelter where there was none.  Travel to the depths of the forest to find that the farm has burnt to the ground, with still and steady hope that it will rise again.  THAT IS WHAT WE FRACTURE OUR EYELIDS SEARCHING FOR...

No...No...No...

This isn't the recipe. You've gotta find it yourself.  We'll keep our search up though..

T