He had learned, the hard way, to distrust anybody wearing the robe of perfection, for such robe does not exist. Everyone makes mistakes, the only perfect person is nobody, and no human being is able to comprehend all that is comprehensible. Wisdom, he had also understood, is not a matter of knowing: it’s a matter of loving. Each human enjoys the blessing of many virtues, and, similarly, each human is on a long, special journey to overcome faults. He thinks, though, that overcoming faults ultimately amounts to accepting them: once monsters are acknowledged, they tend to gradually vanish. And one of such monsters is the illusion of perfection: everyone is exposed to pain, and no transparent robe can protect from that. There is no point in hiding fears under a transparent robe. The sun burns down all of the robes, the rain pours down on earth washing away all of the robes. Love is what remains, a perennial skin.