A caveman sits and carves his words into stone,

Bent over a stone tablet,

Sweat drips from his furrowed brow as he scrambles to collect his ideas,

He focuses them through his chisel in a panic.

A Modern Man approaches,

“You know, we set words into fluid now.”

The caveman’s brow retains its furrow as he addresses Modern Man,

“How?”

“It’s a kind of magic that we call numbers. They change.”

The caveman is scared,

He returns to his chisel,

Determined to prove the insanity of the Modern Man,

A madman who sets his words in fluid rather than stone.

The two part ways,

Headed in opposite directions.