Once upon a time, in a land where gnomes had all kinds of different noses, there lived a remarkable people: the Point-Noses. They were clever and considered themselves above the Round, Flat, and Crooked noses.
Over the centuries, the Point-Noses planted their influence everywhere: in the council halls, among singers and poets, in herb-craft and story-magic. Step by step, they tightened their grip on the world of noses.
First, they took hold of the news. Newsrooms where the clatter of keyboards fell silent the moment a Point-Nose crossed the threshold; scripts quietly bent to hidden accents; headlines that rang louder than the facts. Anchors with polished voices forgot precisely those questions that cut too deep, and the people watched and nodded, as if the evening needed to be explained by those who preferred daylight filtered.
Then they entrenched themselves in the medical world. Guidelines appeared like sacred texts on the wall; protocols grew longer while waiting rooms swelled. White coats whispered formulas that soothed more often than they healed. The Point-Noses knew all the names of the medicines—and the names of the sponsors even better. There was just enough real healing to keep faith alive—precisely that made the enchantment believable—but doubts were swept away like dust beneath the tiles.
At last, they bought time and silence in the music industry. In studios where the red recording light never faded, managers handed out contracts laced with invisible penalties. Producers polished sounds until nothing scratched; choruses became slogans, verses soft commands. A few voices with round or straight noses still sang what seemed true, but the mix always tilted, ever so slightly, in their favor. Thus the chorus of the land became their background music.
And so—through news, medicine, and music—the Point-Noses wove three strands into a single rope. Everyone leaned on it; almost no one saw who pulled. And with each passing day, the world of noses grew a shade darker.
By the year 2030, the Point-Noses were so powerful that they could make the Round, Flat, and Crooked noses believe anything. They used clever devices — magic mirrors, hologram projectors, and illusions that seemed to pour straight out of the dreamworld. They could mimic heroics and horrors alike, keeping the others fearful and dependent.
Then the Point-Noses devised a new ruse: they introduced a Point-Nose Hero.
But this hero voiced exactly what the Round, Flat, and Crooked noses believed and longed to hear. He gave words to their frustrations, called things by their names, and seemed boldly on their side. The people cheered and followed him in droves, never realizing this was just another layer of deception stacked atop all the others.
Little by little, the Round, Flat, and Crooked noses signed up for their own prison. They accepted a digital pass and let the old paper fade away. At first it seemed convenient, but after years they discovered there was nowhere left to go. Everything was tracked; freedom became a memory.
Still, there were a few — Round, Flat, and Crooked noses — who had seen through the game from the start. They withdrew into the underworld, a secret realm the Point-Noses could not find. There they became the whispering heroes of the resistance.
But above ground, dazzled by illusions and promises, the great crowd slept on. And so the world of noses grew ever darker, until the fairyland resembled a nightmare more than a dream.
And then….
The world watched in breathless silence. Live on television, in the middle of a massive stadium, stood the POINTY-NOSE HERO giving his speech. A bullet whistled, a sharp crack rang out, and the crowd saw their savior collapse. Cameras zoomed in, newspapers began writing themselves: “The POINTY-NOSE HERO has been shot dead!”
But no one knew that it was all a masterful combination of hologram projectors and Hollywood trickery. The blood was digital, the fall pre-programmed. Behind the scenes, the directors laughed: the world would never be the same again.
And indeed — without their hero, chaos erupted. The flat-noses blamed the round-noses. The round-noses pointed back. Within days, arguments became fights, and fights became war. Entire cities were torn apart; families split; no one trusted anyone anymore.
The turmoil grew so immense that people no longer asked for power or wealth, but simply for a solution. Something, someone, to end the madness.
And then — as if the sky itself ripped open — he appeared once more. The POINTY-NOSE HERO, alive, radiant in otherworldly light. His voice thundered:
“I have returned.”
The masses fell to their knees. “This cannot be a man,” they whispered. “This must be a God POINTY-NOSE.”
From that moment on, both round and flat-noses obeyed blindly. Their quarrels vanished, not through peace or reconciliation, but through total submission. For everything the Hero commanded was carried out.
And so… the world was lost.
Upon the table, rings remain,
The lamp sheds forth its amber flame.
The thoughts once captured in that plane
Have torn whole nations, brought to shame
