When I look at the Enemy I see him eating breakfast. I see him looking at the stars. I see him finally deciding to hell with it and taking a nap in the afternoon. I see him holding his head in his hands, crying over the blood and the cruelty and the indifference. And when he raises his head, wipes his eyes and looks at me, I hope he sees the same thing.
Imagine instead that the thugs suddenly drop their guns, their faces quizzical, their blinding rage wiped away by a wave of tranquility. They are not sedated into unconsciousness to arise later still bitter, but rather awakened entirely from their cold trance of hatred. They can feel again.
The multiplication of the triangles within the circle can continue infinitely, causing the outline around them to be infinitely long. Yet that outline will never cross to the outside of the circle. Infinity inside a finite space. Yup.