Impressionism. A novel style originating from Paris. Dorian was quite familiar with it, for he had seen a lot of it in art exhibitions before... In fact, he knew someone who had dabbled in that style at times, and was rather talented in that regard. Someone he saw in the painting that blinked.

"...Basil?"

Scarcely a moment after the name was uttered, the painting distorted horribly before Dorian's eyes. Terror overcame him. He screamed, stumbling back and dropping his pipe, unable to trust his own senses. Was this how his friend felt that fateful night?

He nearly jumped at the sound of someone's ethereal voice. Dorian turns around, half wanting to see who was there, half wishing he could escape this nightmare.

There, on the couch, was a one-eyed triangle that looked like it had just returned from a dinner party. Dorian stared in bewilderment as the triangle briefly morphed, and spoke with such a laid-back tone in spite of not having a mouth.

"What... God, I need to quit the opium," He admits to no-one in particular. This triangle... This whole scene, it couldn't be real. His senses were too much affected for any of this to be real... Right?