Wise men, they were, who sat around a table, thinking and growing wiser. They thought of great things and simple things that were all reduced to but things that fled by their far-seeing eyes. They talked and laughed and cried for people and creatures alike. Their vision that prodded and poked everything like a broad board of needles, like a patch of caterpillars stuck to a piece of leather, like a swish of a purple velvet, like the coarse emery paper, did but hone every philosophy and line of thought into sharper and clearer pictures until their minds were blunt with the effort to sharpen friends. And at the end of their timeless efforts for the day, they were famished. But the urge to go on was uncanny! There was too much to be sharpened until the points were indistinguishable from infinity! Just too much!
And so, they picked a fork from either side and ate. They laughed at the blunt fork. They philosophized that they waned in sharpness with serving their purpose. One said that the fork was but a means to a bigger purpose; that with which they could feed their intellectual polishing machines. The other smiled and picked at a piece that was stuck to his beard and flicked it away. He said that there was always something that would go to the dogs through a journey. But oh! But oh! Only two had forks in either hand! The others were left starving and fuming. For the food would make them think and now, they couldn’t eat! They sat there, thinking more. While the two ate to their hearts. They put their forks down and thought, while the remaining fought to pick up forks.
Such was their little life; sitting around a table; five great ones whose thoughts shone in the objects they honed with their philosophy. But none got up. Ah! Great ones that thought wonderful things!
Great ones that didn’t get up to get themselves another pair of forks.