Oh, Jean-Michel, we found you! You were there, a dandelion thrusting past the curb and asphalt seam, where we saw you, and saved you from where you were. You were the voice of the street, Jean-Michel, or so we said. Were it true we would have left you there. It was when you spoke your epithetic murmurs, and we heard the excluded articulate in a way we refused to allow, you had to be allowed for what you would betray.
So, Jean-Michel, "You have talent," we declared! And, we pinched it as a butterfly's wings thinking how much it would bring. You didn't struggle. You impressed an imprint upon forefinger and thumb, one we could not grasp.
Andy: You painted over me Jean-Michel.
Jean-Michel: I vandalized you, Andy.
Andy: Still, I do not like what you did.
Jean-Michel: At last it is you who is used.
We could have left you there, the weed that you were. You would have remained but a rumor; legend denied. Instead we turned you into one-hundred ten million point five. One-hundred ten million point five. Now, that is some reason to be alive! Same old, same old is dead. All this in a birthplace refusing you a home, but for the front gate of an asylum. Even there, not allowed to tarry.
But, it's okay, Jean-Michel. After we've picked your carcass clean, and sold what remains of you as though it were ours to sell, we can sharpen our reputations as the overseers of aesthetic wizardry, making a career of explaining you…and those of you who follow.