Harold

I once knew an artist who lived in a far away medieval castle on a charred baron landscape where a wonky old pine tree was the only piece of life to exist outside this wretched plaything. This man had images flow through his mind and he would recite his work to Harold, a charming young Burmese cat with chiselled good looks. Harold was a critique and would modulate his behaviour based on his liking of the work. Once while reciting a particularly complex piece of literature to Harold, Harold suddenly became aloof. For Harold had grown tiresome of the artists new direction  he was, as they say, a fan of his old stuff, but not his new stuff.