"Perfection is the enemy of good," she muttered under her breath.

The pages before her were glaringly blank, and her mind swam with ideas and doubts so quickly she could barely recognize one from the next. She reached for her scissors and some loose book pages, and stared at them. Her mind suddenly as blank as the spread she hoped to fill. She began chopping. The scissors sliced through the paper over and over again, and the slivers rained down onto the carpet and her lap.

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And in the pile that had collected on and around her, it all made sense. Not in words, but somehow, from there, her hands, her subconscious, whatever you want to call it, knew what she was doing.

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Harper reached for a tube gold paint. She grabbed the glue stick. She used her felt tipped markers for a while. She arranged the paper shards. She used her pastels.

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And it all was there. And it all made sense. Fully in her being. Like hearing music when there wasn't any playing. This was what she lived for. This is what she needed.

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