What the fuck are you supposed to be?
“It’s, uhhh, art. Wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
You look like a woodland sprite.
You’re like Tom Bombadil. You’re Obambadil.
“All right, settle down. Listen, we talking here just you and me?”
“I got no fucking idea what this is.”
Maybe it’s the outfield at Wrigley?
“I root for the Sox. Anyway, I got no clue. Rebirth, growth, life, something like that.”
You could’ve smiled.
“You are aware that this is not a photograph, right? I wasn’t actually present when it was created.”
“You thought I sat there in front of the easel for a couple days?”
“You’re not bright.”
No, sir. What are you up to lately?
“Interviewing lawyers. Apparently, I’m about to be indicted.”
I read that, too.
“Deep State, brother.”
So, are you still in charge of the Deep State?
“No, no, no. There’s layers upon layers on top of me. Queen Elizabeth I.”
I think you mean Elizabeth II, sir.
“I didn’t. Elizabeth the First. They put her brain in a robot.”
“There’s a coma patient in Plattsburgh, NY, whose bodily metrics perfectly mirror the stock market.”
“The streetlights of Marseilles. Kind of a collective consciousness.”
“And, uhhh, George Soros.”
I was waiting for him.
“Deep State is everywhere. Look behind you.”