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In many things, I have been satisfied only when they meet a certain level of perfection. If it is imperfect, even mildly, such as a stray line on a drawing, improper grammar in a belabored sentence, dust in a
deep crevice, I have difficulty finding joy in the finished work. I am
compelled to erase, rework, dig deeper, even if I have been mildly
rebuked to simply let it go.