If only life was like the novels

I am reading "The Birth of Venus" which is about a young woman artist in Florence at the end of the Medici era. She has all these exchanges with a mysteriuos rockstar painter who goes out walking late at night and then traps her against stone walls and whispers secrets in her ear.
A mostly unrelated epiphany: during a 90 minute meeting today consisting mainly of sentences like this one "The PTRS database won't allow mailmerges to include data..." (you get the idea) when a winged visitor stopped by to oversee the goings on. The thing I've forgotten about the Seagull, in my study of Chekhov's play, is that it is a hilarious bird. When I think of its body when flying (or dead) its a little more graceful, but standing up it looks ridiculous. It has a huge fat body and stick legs and a huge nose; not like a Dove or Robin or some such KatieHolmes-esque bird. It's the Cheri Oteri or Rachel Dratch of birds. This particular fellow had to know what he was doing to me. I had to lower my head because the corners of my mouth were turning up and tears were gathering in my eyes. Nobody else was facing the window. As the meeting leader talked, the bird crossed 3 (the magic #!) times in front of the window. From the time he appeared to the time he disappeared he never took his eyes off me. So the bird's body was facing one way as its head was turned to the side. Like a vaudeville act. I would not have been surprised if his third round had included a cane and top hat.