The way Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] saw the room was also the manner in which it existed. - That along with the other sly in the corner opposite. A noble Cyclops in his prime could regard a space, unblinking – absolutely no blinking whatever; even a flutter – for, he thought, a month. Reasonably speaking without any permanent injuries, with no intention of framing the new archetype of a new literature of hero scripture, based upon the physical attributes of a Cyclops – no; just being normal, doing the work holding the structure together, like he said, like he thought, no permanent injury. A noble born Cyclops could regard a space, form its existence through the way he saw it, pulled obviously out of a connection to the entire mode, as they used to describe it – that thing connected to that thing/story/totality/architecture/geometry/consciousness/ -

In his prime, he could do that comfortably for a month. Why this would be fair, or necessary, was another question. The part of Pry-Boak's [cL^YoP] mind that had these thoughts, as opposed to the part connected to a vast and infinite realm of pure story, really a story, really one story, really one image or series of images of a quest, and how that operated on the unconscious operational modes of a populace, on the way they acted and on their literal dreams; sleeping and waking, connected out of that – that totality - which required a lot more than – his thoughts scattered on these themes, sans any coherent resolution because, he thought - exhaustion.

Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] thought about the fact that he had been standing here in this position holding this space together – he was not exactly in his prime, he wasn't exactly noble-born, either, which apparently helped, and as those around him never tired of informing him, he was rather small for his kind – he'd barely managed to even get here in the first place; he was practically a failure, as they told him too - nor was he in fact anything else that would contribute to the easing of performing such a mentally overwhelming operation almost regardless – in terms of talent - of how many individual modes in the total mode, as they used to describe it, were activated; not even considering the fact of the sudden – in terms of the timescales one had to operate under, in here... but he couldn't finish the thought. If it was a thought. He was distracted... exhausted.

- There were a lot of complex overlapping/interlinking thought processes that he was operating under in here, that he couldn't untangle; didn't have the capacity to at the best of times, let alone connected to... what he was connected to, and the fact of his having to use this to keep the room together. For six months.

Connected out of what it was connected out of, and solely with the aid of the ancient and tireless Brey-BreLoak [cL^YoP***], noble born as any, but nearing nine hundred and anyway – years - ... such a mammoth, of their culture - should not have to put up with any of this. He should be watching his cats chase leaves on windy days, in those calm places one could still find near the Blind City, Hortag... that planet where they all came from. The fact... he couldn't... help but let his mind drift this way - but it wasn't his fault, the story was dying and it was weak - and if there was nothing to replace it... but even then...

Collapsing in the disjointed heap from which they emerged, in the way his mind played across spaces - his thoughts scattered - less and less separation the more required of him, and he of course was; he was at least the reason this space currently retained the current form it had. No, in fact, he was only the technical explanation. Him and Brey-BreLoak, that was. For the fact it even existed.

He was the technical explanation, for the existence of which, not the reason for which, the reason for which - beyond the technical explanation - was Pheel Cazzo, who entered his office and shut the door.