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There once was an old man who lived alone. He wrote and wrote and wrote all day until his hand would get stiff. Then, he would use his other hand until that one was stiff, too. At this point, he would give up and go to bed. This old man's one passion in life was writing. He used to love writing stories until one time he received a gift for his birthday. That gift was a book of poetry. He read and read and read until he reached the end of the book at which point his devotion to its content turned into emptiness. He decided that he wanted to write a poem. Not just any poem. He wanted to write the poem that would give his life meaning, make it reason to celebrate after his death. He would not stop until he made this perfect little poem. The old man slaved away, day and night. He would rarely leave his home and lived a poorly encased life, cut off from the rest of the world. This lifestyle would eventually lead to a serious illness. The doctors were sure he would soon meet his end if he