Dwarf

Dwarf picks up his pen with a forlorn countenance, for he is forced to dream again. Within the next four months, he will have to swipe the dust off a forgotten manuscript, and position his illusory cuboid into an unfitting sphere of reality. Four months...each day as torturous as the one before. What motivation can this be, a demanding price to pay for a potential temporary relief of Dwarf's dessicated spirit? And where to muster the resources to pay it? Not from the drying tip of his quill, nor from his dwindling coffers. Dwarf might while the days away, musing about the comedy of chasing after and glueing together fragmented pieces from the tomes of knowledge. Or even better, flinging laughable pieces of stones at the Goliath of his destiny, while other contemporaries and superiors effortlessly realise the same dream. Ultimately though, nothing probably matters, for that indeterminate spring of renewal in his heart, Chief creator of all processes anew, will eventually whirl him unto another arena of mortal combat.