The brim of the impeccably-dressed gentleman’s stovepipe began to perspire.
Hats do not possess sweat glands, generally speaking. Most are constructed from felt or wood rather than from tiny paint daubs. But remaining motionless requires intense concentration, and the three dots that collectively considered themselves The Brim were struggling.
In the top right corner of the painting, a dot playing the role of Ocean Moss wobbled slightly. Silent pleas sprang up from an umbrella’s midsection, the hem of a violet dress, nearly an entire tree branch, and several daubs that had the misfortune of being permanently fused to dog extremities.
The dots inhaled deeply and carefully, for no one had explained that they lacked lungs. Each was so small that the human eye would fail to detect a little toddling, but too many straining sections could spell calamity.
Hour after hour they toiled, until at last the lights dimmed and the doors locked. The painting, admired by hundreds that day, sighed with relief as thousands of dots collapsed and immediately entered The Dreaming.
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