The Buddha was young. The Buddha was handsome. The Buddha was an isolated prince. He reached nirvana on the breath of a cloud, and he thought the statues of him were odd.
"I am not fat," he said to himself. "Why do they make me like that?"
I sat with the Buddha and listened to his words. "If you are so enlightened," I asked with a frown, "then why does the aesthetic of art matter to you?"