There is no such thing as a perfect casting
For that book you adore that fills you with amour
When put on screen just leaves you wanting more
See this is the issue with our imagination
We fill in details and cracks with no hesitation
There are no seems, just seamless transitions
Which never even endeavours to require our recognition
Even right now, somehow, you are reading this in a certain way
The voice in your head acts with emotion, with disdain and dismay
And were I to read it to you, my way, in a voice of my own
It would not seek to replace the seed or tone your imagination has sown
There is no such thing as a correct way to experience art
But there is the first way, which left the imprint on our heart
Such that, when someone seeks to recreate that anew
It's just natural it wont be in the way that is personal to you.
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