Grumpy Tim Coe pulls the magnet off the vacuum jar, and within, the hammer and the feather hit the floor together.

“Clearly,” explains a scientist, “the absence of air makes the feather want to fall.”

Another scientist frowns. “What if it’s an aetheric issue? If we should replace the feather with a hollow sphere–”

“Not possible,” clucks the third scientist. “You clearly have no background in animistic suicides.”

“But–”

“No need to be ashamed!” chuckles the fourth scientist. “Some people are smarter than others.”

Grumpy Tim Coe puts the magnet on the jar again, but the feather won’t come back up.

Grumpy Tim Coe finds a Platonic form on his porch. It’s The Circle. It’s glassy white. Its edge is sharp as nothing.

Grumpy Tim Coe shows The Circle to some scientists. “Harrumph,” they say. “Mere philosophy.”

He shows it to some philosophers. “Oh,” they say, “the concrete is for artists.”

He shows it to some artists. “A meaningless exercise in form,” they say. “Go away.”

Grumpy Tim Coe goes home. He takes The Circle out to his back yard. He sets it on a stump.

“Am I not justified?” he asks the world, grumpily, and then smashes it with a bat.