I woke to a mass of men writhing and broken, moving as one in their attempt to reach that great circle of light. They looked like ants, but ants without exoskeletons: their soft bits shredding, their hard bits breaking, to make a sort of chicken-leg jello out of humanity. The cries of pain and cries of triumph mixed.

But one man keeps saying, "2π28.57mm. 2π28.57mm. 2π28.57mm.” Pointing at the circle of light. Claiming he cut it.

Cut what?

And why?