Breakfast, then airborne. My wings slash into the crisp air, catch a draft, glide me over rows of buildings whose windows glisten in shards of morning sunlight. I scan the street below for a subject.
Blue wool suit, briefcase.
I’m leagues beyond my colleagues—those mindless cretins who randomly splatter windshields, statues, park benches. I’m an artist, an aerial Jackson Pollock, my masterpieces carefully conceived, brilliantly executed.
I dip my wings and plummet, unloading just as I pull out of the dive. The man below curses, takes out a tissue, wipes at the white spot on his suit.
Ars gratia artis.