The sculptor returned before the day was up and felt down about the condition of his work. It was the artist turned sculptor from before, the one who terrorized the shore's denizens and had his paper and easel ruined. Bad habits were hard to kick and he slammed his toes into the prism after his work was once again in disrepair in his absence. With a cry of pain, he hobbled on one foot before falling over.

His shoulder just so happened to brush up against the rock, pushing it away a few feet. The ground in this spot was a bit closer to the treeline and had a bit more shade with less grass wrapping their clingy stems to the rock's greatness. One of the beetles that had found the rock's crack to be a suitable escape until the sunset, rose to the occasion and attacked the sculptor.

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Feeling the scurry of tiny feet upon his neck, the sculptor began dancing with his hands. He jumped into the air then let off some very down to earth moves. Even after the beetle had long fallen off, he remained standing, moving his legs and arms in somewhat of a chaotic rhythm. An epiphany struck him and with no audience other than the rock, which didn't count, the sculptor danced while humming a tune.

No longer was he a sculptor, but a dancer or maybe a singer even. Though he resembled more of a clown at this current moment. Someone who constantly fumbled everything he tried for the sake of comedy, going from one trick to another to keep things fresh. Technically he was still an artist, just a different kind.