By being an egomaniac in my art and lose sleep until each stroke meets excellence

excellence to be judged by me, nobody but myself

Does the little things not make the big?

Even white light forms from the colours of the rainbow

To be deaf to the voice of the detractor who does not see

The ones who already scorn before knowing

For they do not see but say

Their satisfaction is not mine to fulfil

They can't love mine the way I do

Would it not be love that drives obsession?

Did Michelangelo not dissect corpses to study how muscle bond to bone for his obsession of sculpting?

Reaching perfection is a horizon that never draws nearer

It is only to be chased because it can't be reached.

"Art is never finished, only abandoned"