In Central Park, the Sculptor built a box. He hammered down the floor, then the walls, and then the ceiling. A perfect cube, big enough to fit a man if he curled inside. The Sculptor, satisfied, left the box on the grass and immediately forgot why he had wanted to build it in the first place.

After a few hours, a mother and her son approached the box. She believed she was Cameron Diaz in The Holiday. Not like Cameron, but actually Cameron. It was a problem. She had named her son Jude after Jude Law. This was more of a problem. Cameron and Jude knocked on the box, tried to tip it over, succeeded, shrugged, and went on their way.

Days later, a mime sat atop the box and, fingers running tears down his face, died of heart attacks for tourists from noon until four in the afternoon. When the heat became too much, he gathered up his money, lowered himself from his makeshift stage, and took a bow for the squirrels.

Then came the boyfriends. After witnessing the perfection of the box, one packed his bags in the middle of the night and left what was once love behind. The other man returned the next day and took a match to the box. The box burned to nothing and no one cared, but at least the arson was closure.

The Sculptor, now bundled up for winter, stood where he believed he had placed the box and built another. Halfway through, he finally remembered the why of it, the reason for his art, and laughed at himself. He embodied his own cliché. When he finished, tools packed, this new box silent in the snow, he walked off with a whistle. People never could leave well enough alone.

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