Perfection, Obsession and Pure Madness

Releasing the Leatherbound

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When I was eight years old I wrote my first short story. It was about a mad composer. He wrote scores and scores of music. He led an orchestra. He was a performer. An artist. But none of his songs were just right. He believed that if he wrote the perfect song, it would come to life. He believed that once he wrote that perfect song, he could see it before his very own eyes and touch it and feel it and live it. And so, he lived. As a mad composer. Someone who became obsessed with writing that perfect song. He would write a score and crumple the paper. He would write another score and rip that paper. He would write and crumple and write and rip until his fingers cramped and his pencil grew so small he could no longer sharpen it with his aching fingers. In essenceā€¦

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