I come from the crease of a hand.

I come from a dead-end road with all old neighbors and a dog.

I come from the middle of everywhere but nowhere at all. In between every store, school, and snow hill with no ride at all.

I come from six brothers and two sisters although many are older by a decade, parties are frequent with cake at all.

I can from the thought of being perfect, No flaws; No mistakes; No errors. Out of all my siblings I am held to the expectation of being perfect.

I come from a world of knowledge. I get advice from every crease of my hand. With the expectation I will be perfect.

But what is the definition of perfect?