Three evil onyx towers on a palace the rest of which, the base of which, was a massive fronted granite edifice, ridged out completely along the facade by alternating indentations of triangular prisms, long, all granite, and slick and slanted, suscitated by it, as if the facade of the building itself were cold dead flesh, arousing colours.

The oranges pushed out upon the rest of the place, the populace, the common spaces; the common minds below – Art felt a pointed and irrational anger connected with the building and his own response to it. And reds here, deeper and more complex in terms of the shades, raw shades that the Orach of Mending revealed were the true flavours, in terms of the lies exported by this place, pushed-out across it.

It was a massive granite edifice, cut out with ridges, alternating triangular prisms, and slick across this the slippy colours that made Art angry. Just irrational, unfocused, unexplained anger; it was his emotional response. He was pissed, so pissed he could kill actually, he would like to.

He got his horse going and started up toward it. She took him there really, the horse, this horse - it knew where he was going. He didn't do a lot with it but –

It was fantasy. There were fantasies in there, in that edifice, and it was these pouring out in poisoned colours, in a sort of material pollution, interpreted only by the Orach of Mending, maybe. Revealing the sort of sickness, the sort of weirdness, in that place, in that sick place, tangled in mazes of interpretation and meaning and want. Want.

Precisely, in fact, the things he was designed, he felt he was designed, to untangle. - Perhaps convenient but then again this was the fashion in which reality apparently worked.

This was a pulsation, an auscultation, an emanation also, emanating, he felt, from the Bollock of Wanting, he felt it literally pulse; the red bollock under his neck. The Bollock of Wanting filled his response to this place with meaning, for the reason that it knew – he self-consciously understood exactly what the Bollock of Wanting wanted and knew and the game, the precise rules of which, it was playing.

He knew – and it knew, that whatever this place was and it really was, it was connected to the thing, the Bollock of Wanting, above anything else, wanted. And it was to be in something; to be in something sufficiently – sufficiently inside that thing that it wanted - that it could transform it into meaning, or at least a temporary interruption in the continued, the ceaseless really, crisis of want, of wanting, which, when he thought about it was exactly what -

At that moment, at that very instant, he was there. The trail of thought had brought him to the facade without any transition between that and anything else. Granite ridges in triangular prisms, the onyx towers high above him, now, and somehow, also - he wasn't even on his horse. He wasn't even on it. He led her now and he placed his hands upon the surface of the granite palace; tuned in the Orach of Mending, and perceived, and felt its want - not the hanging appendage under his neck now, but that place itself; that's all it was, in fact, want. Desire transmuted into -

He was a man, a being maybe, with organs more sophisticated than him. Feelings, and impressions, and modes of operating in reality, given him, uninterrupted by organs that interpreted, and also the degrees to which they were, and their veracity, in reality. But his mind wasn't capable of delineating them out. Of comprehending really. Of separating the impressions and understanding what they really meant.

Orange and purple, and red, now, lines; lies - emanating from this space in pulsing waves of pollution that evidently had warped the populace down their too, in some sense, into pens of madness; the only goodness left kept in brains in terms of self-defence, for reasons of self-defence, the brains that had been, the minds, smart enough to warp themselves out from all contact with reality –

Or maybe he didn't know anything, and this was just a species of hangover. He didn't know but - beside that and want – and the building itself – and -

The building itself spoke to him.

“Haw, weirdo!”