I was in a Piranesi landscape—tumbled columns, grazing goats, distant shepherds and shepherdesses about their discreet businesses in a renaissance bosky dell. Giancarlo crouched before a tiny campfire, feeding it with sticks and what looked to be loose rubble. He had several weeks’ growth of beard.

"Signor Twain?" He turned and saw that it was me. "Ah, you are back. I had hoped you might return. Good day. Or more appropriately, l'altro ieri, the day before yesterday. Or the week after today."

I moved in to warm myself at the fire. It was cold. "Your fire is not giving out much heat," I said.

"It is not a fire; it is a picture of a fire." Giancarlo gestured toward the grazing goats. "Push one," he said.

I walked over to the little flock; no matter which way I tried to go, everything was sideways. "Push," said Giancarlo. I pushed. The goat fell over.