The Face at the Window produced a piece of paper from his locket, and in his ecstasy he fingered the edge of the table. It chipped.

chip

“It was the table.” He digressed. “But what say you?”

The Other Guy bowed modestly. “An opus of such caliber deserves a king’s platter.”

Bemusedly, the face at the window frowned. “The Other Guy, not only do I not comprehend, but neither have you seen the paper.”

“It is my opinion that whatever The Face at the Window produces is worthy.”

“You are wrong, for it was not I that produced this, but the locket that did, though I did produce the locket, you see.”

“It looks like paper, and it speaks in a 150 words!” He mused deliriously. “Behold! I have produced what can produce, at whim, thousands of these! Just imagine what we can accomplish!”

“I agree, it is attractive; I do love,” The Other Guy beamed a lofty smile, “chiaroscuro.”