The first thing Z understood was that perfection is a measurement, and measurements are made by other people.
He had read that somewhere—probably in a philosophy textbook he'd devoured at age four, probably in a copy of Camus or Kierkegaard or some other writer whose name he could not recall but whose ideas had become part of the structure of his thinking like rebar in concrete. Perfection is a measurement. The people who measure you are not you. This was the conclusion he had drawn from his first...
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