There was this seagull. It soared above it all, looking down on the rest of us, and we gaped in awe at the way it glided on the air currents when all the time it was scheming ways to take the food from our mouths.
“It was a metaphor for the soaring political hacks that feed on sheep in the night,” he mansplained.
“You think I don’t know that?” she scoffed and took another sip of the expensive wine they were sharing.
“I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m everything you say that I am,” he said stiffly.
The moon loomed over them like a concerned parent, and over the fence a chihuahua barked like a coonhound on 78.
The howls echoed through the neighborhood, and they were ours.
Suddenly everything changed, but it took years.
+ + + + +
“People always make the mistake of thinking art is created for them. But really, art is a private language for sophisticates to congratulate themselves on their superiority to the rest of the world. As my artist’s statement explains, my work is utterly incomprehensible and is therefore full of deep significance.” — Calvin, aka Bill Watterson
