Years upon years of preparation had gone into this event now unfolding.
The Lonely Poet sat before a blank sheet of paper at his desk, pen in hand,
with lines of concentration across his brow.

He had spent many months purifying his mind with the greatest poets of history:
the most prolific, the most renowned, the most bizarre and the most obscure.

He was ready.

Deep inside himself he knew that his entire life had been building towards this moment –
made for this moment.
He was ready to fulfil the goal that would give his life meaning:

The perfect poem.
Once written his life would be complete.

Beads of sweat now lined his forehead.
A multitude of combinations were flying through his mind.
Everything depended upon the first sentence –
the very first word.
Every aspect of the poem had to be perfect.
Each decision was crucial.

The sweat began to pour off his body as he concentrated ever more furiously.
All night the Lonely Poet sat there till the sun slowly crept into his room.
He could sense the quiet awe of angels hovering overhead
as the pen dropped from his aching hand.

Satisfied, he pushed himself away from his desk and the perfect poem,
and walked outside to embrace his death.

Inside, the angels hovered closer,
whispering together as they marvelled at the majesty of his work.

Later, much later, another poet happened across the lonely room.
Feeling inspired, he picked up the pen and began to scribble
over the top of what was once perfection.

The life's work of the Lonely Poet was lost in that moment of creation.

Who was more foolish?
The fool who left a page unmarked and labelled it perfection,
or the fool who thought himself worthy of destroying it?