The Sculpture, by K. J. Watson

‘Keep your hands off the sculpture, sir,’ the museum’s curator warned.

I could not comply. I worshipped that sculpture.

‘You’re banned,’ the curator said.

I employed a plastic surgeon. Unrecognizable, I returned to the museum.

Keeping my hands to myself, I knelt before the sculpture.

‘Yes, it is nice,’ a visitor commented.

‘“Nice”?’ I shrieked. ‘It’s sublime.’

The curator banned me again.

I contacted an artist. He transformed me into a conceptual artwork. Then he donated me to the museum on condition that I stand alongside the sculpture.

There was no room. The curator put me in the basement instead.