Woody Allen Crosses His Eyes and Slowly Pulls Image Away, Still Can’t See Sailboats

“Come on, Woody,” someone said to the superannuated director as he stared at the iconic image on the wall. “It’s time to go home.”

“Just a minute…there is something here now that wasn’t there before. I’m sure of it.”

“It’s alright now, Woody, everything is alright.”

But something was there, something subtle had changed in the photo. Or perhaps it had been there all along? He couldn’t be certain, and anyway, someone was gently guiding him into an ink black car–protecting his head as he bent reflexively at the knees to sit–and whisking him away from the Park Avenue Armory and into the wet city before him.