Notes:

>a blacked out car rolls up in front of Swift's hotel
>her manager sticks his head out of the front, surreptitiously looks left and right before he scurries to the car
>the windows open a crack, enough for the manager to slip a manilla envelope in
>"A copy of her menu for this month," the manager says, his hands sweating but eagerly rubbing in anticipation
>"You did well," a smooth Irish voice says from within the car. A thick envelope of cash is pushed out, which the manager eargerly takes.
>The manager takes the money, then hesitantly says, "If I may be so bold as to ask…Why are you doing this?"
>The window opens a fraction. Just enough for the manager to catch a glimpse of a pair of intense blue eyes in the shadows.
>"Donatello, Michaelangelo, Bernini…The great Renaissance masters sculpted statues of great beauty and sublimity out of marbel. But I, I work with no medium so no base. No, my medium is the human body. While these men molded their visions of goddesses bestowed by the heavens onto their minds, I Mister Manager, sculpt the goddesses themselves…"
>The manager flinches asa the pair of blue eyes suddenly draws close. They do not seem to be starring at him, or even at any item in the universe, but some grand vision in dimensions higher than what he could perceive.
>"Why? Why? Why did Man go to the moon? Why did DaVinci paint the Mona Lisa? Why did Beethoven compose the Ninth? You ask the question of the commoners. I was put on the Earth to do this, and do it I shall. Because the Moon revolves around the Earth. Because the stars shine down upon us. Because God's up in his heaven. Gaze upon my works and despair, you lout, because I am the Architect."