It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single point in the grand tapestry of existence is in fact a series of concentric circles, each one a portal to a different dimension.
Or is it?
Perhaps the point, as a concept, is merely a placeholder for the human condition. A symbol of the futility of existence, a reminder that all we have is the fleeting moment, the present.
Or maybe, just maybe, the point is a portal to a dimension where everything is a circle, and all circles are points in waiting. A place where the infinite and the infinitesimal converge.
Recommended reading:
The Point of Intersection by J. P. Fencington
The Point of View by Z. P. Quill
The Point of Viewpoint by Q. P. Fencelton