Juan Gris Breakfast

Juan Gris BreakfastGeorge Bellows Stag at Sharkey'sGeorge Bellows Dempsey and FirpoCaravaggio The Sacrifice of IsaacCaravaggio The Musicians
His other son bit his stylus miserably. His hand was hurting. He'd tried to touch his brother, and the crackling shock had taken the skin off his fingers.
'I might,' he ventured.
'Can you cure it?'
'I don't think so.'
'What is it, then?'
'Well, dad. When we were up on the pyramid . . . well, when it couldn't flare . . . you see, I'm sure it twisted around . . . time, you see, is just another dimension . . . um.'
in the frescoes,' he said. 'Where's his depth, or whatever you call it?'
'I think that's in Time,' said IIb, helplessly. 'Ours, not his.'
Ptaclusp walked around his son, noting how the flatness followed him. He scratched his chin.
'So he can walk in Time, can he?' he said slowly.Ptaclusp rolled his eyes. 'None of that architect's talk, boy,' he said. 'What's wrong with him?' 'I think he's dimensionally maladjusted, dad. Time and space has got a bit mixed up for him. That's why he's moving sideways all the time.' Ptaclusp IIb gave his father a brave little smile. 'He always used to move sideways,' said Ptaclusp. His son sighed. 'Yes, dad,' he said. 'But that was just normal. All accountants move like that. Now he's moving sideways because that's like, well, it's like Time to him.' Ptaclusp frowned. Drifting gently sideways wasn't IIa's only problem. He was also flat. Not flat like a card, with a front, back and edge - but flat from any direction. 'Puts me exactly in mind of them people