In a world turned, not by hands, but by whims of gears, a square pirouetted into an existential crisis. "Why must I be four sides?" sighed the quadrilateral, longing for roundness—a dream, a distant circle, its utopia.
Meanwhile, triangles debated politics in obtuse corners of their minds, irony draping over them like an unwanted but fashionable cloak. Learn more.
All was shape, all was form—and yet, amidst this geometric waltz, no one sought the dimensional chasm where abstract horrors writhed. Could the clocks see such misfits of geometry? Perhaps they could, but chose to tick in blissful ignorance.