29
۱۰ آبان ۱۴۰۳
۱۲:۰۷:۴۵
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When I was small, maybe six, we had assignments to trace lines and shapes, preparing our hands for the alphabet to come. I’d sit at my little bright green desk, carefully, cautiously, completing page after page. If, by chance, one line slipped—just slightly off from the perfect image I held in my mind—I’d tear the whole page away and start anew. That was my way. An obsessive little child, who left no room for error, who demanded perfection at every turn
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