An Interesting Link on Self-Sabo

[August West]

Here

There is a moment, just before creation begins, when the work exists in its most perfect form in your imagination. It lives in a crystalline space between intention and execution, where every word is precisely chosen, every brushstroke deliberate, every note inevitable, but only in your mind. In this prelapsarian state, the work is flawless because it is nothing: a ghost of pure potential that haunts the creator with its impossible beauty.
This is the moment we learn to love too much.

To me, a generous description of the blog post is probably, "Meh." I did give it a chance.