the man who called himself the maker of shapes; we knew as the artist; forever torturing himself to create the newest shapes of perfect dimensions; finely tuning his math and wearing his tools and pens thin; alas one day he came up with an amorphous shape; a perfect continuation of a curve that met itself in the end; an infinite cycle that would remain unbroken; a circle, he decided, would be the one shape he had yet to perfect; he locked himself away in his study, to not be seen for years; his only trips were to the drafting shoppe for more supplies and his own kitchen for meals, made in the wee hours of the morn; not many understood his reasoning behind drafting that which was impossible without tools. he slaved away at it, piles and piles of drafts filled the room; his eyesight started going, and his hands were riddled with arthritis; and one day he did not wake; after the burial, which three attended, the townsfolk came to his house to figure out what the hermit had created; thus in his drafting room, laid hundreds of thousands of gorgeous shapes and curvatures; distractions from the circle which he created in his freetime; all for the sake of the circle; his vision so narrowed; he never truly saw what he had accomplished; all for the sake of perfection.