A philosopher, in need of a new project to entertain his intellect, decided to create a new humanity, reasoning he could hardly make something worse than the existing kind. He gathered together clay and iron, a lot of water and a little fire, the essential ingredients in his perception, and began to sculpt.
For years he worked at it, not exclusively but with dedication. He refined the features ("They lack even such beauty as the coarser type possesses"), adjusted the proportions ("To think I ran out of water"), and developed screens to keep away insects, an invention which earned him the praise of society.
After dozens of attempts he came up with something he thought serviceable, enough that he made it the model for several variations in order to start them out with a community, something necessary for the new humans just as much as for the old.
That accomplished, he went about his usual business and waited for his humans to come to life, which they did. They died the next day.
Saddened but encouraged, the philosopher made more, and more, and more, gradually perfecting them till at last he had produced the new humanity. Full of pride, he asked his peers whether they had ever seen anything so amazing.
"Sure. My kids."
"Yeah, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you'd just had kids, but I guess that isn't the philosopher way."
"This isn't the same thing at all!" The philosopher's objections went ignored, and later, he did wonder.
Finis
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