Beauty, that, looking at you. Robbed you of even the idea of defence.

She operated this on him purposefully; she turned it on him, and; he had no want, it was true; he did not want her, had no way of understanding how any man could – except, that was, and this relieved him currently - in terms of reflections on the state of his own mental well-being - for any man consciously seeking oblivion.

Before he could think about what this meant about his current interpretation of - anything really - she said, “I understand what and who you are and what you want,” or something anyway in this moment he couldn't quite recall, for reasons extraneous to his consciousness, “or rather what you won't want, as long as I offer you a narrative impulse enticing enough to keep you going; you can, obviously, continue with your activities for the innocent - whatever half-intelligent self-referential narrative game you're playing for that Cyclops, they won't, it won't – one does not necessarily impinge upon the other; go forward, go ahead, with complete - with all of my sincerest blessings.”

Cascading silk dress, massive, and trailing off the throne itself, same colour as the jade walls, that of an ancient ocean, cut in such a fashion that/

a slice of cleavage ceasing just in time not to reveal something extremely strange. At least, if she moved in a certain light, angle, but – it was always light and colour and angles, but what did this thought even refer to?

- His own consciousness the only mystery he really gave a general in the same direction care for – but she was making him think this, and his entire relationship to reality, that was, in terms of the Bollock of Wanting, was not operating in quite the usual fashion.

He thought.

That wasn't all. In direct response to her.

“- Well what do you want?”

“What does he want?”

“You know.” He didn't. Apparently this was not something required of his consciousness at that moment. What did any of this shit mean?

She looked at him. He didn't know what this being was. But she wasn't just a woman. Sometimes that was enough, but no, she wasn't just a woman.

“I suspect - I more or less deeply suspect,” she was saying to him out of the organ in her face which wasn't the organ he was thinking about - he thought it an intentional act on her part; it was a very strange and insistent feeling that his organ that wanted, was interpreting out of its usual train of thought, he couldn't explain it - even in his own head to himself but there was a sense in which the Bollock of Wanting, ironically – it was something like desire, too inward, too, back upon itself in some fashion and maybe he was thinking about things consciously, pinning words on something consciously, that shouldn't be understood. Couldn't be, even under his consciousness - which was a doctrine he'd heard explained by certain – but that didn't matter and nor could he in this moment precisely recall.

This wasn't something for his mind to ruminate on, even to actively oppose ruminating on, but something for his other Bollock, the supernatural organ, that hung off his neck -

“A little too inward isn't?”

“What are you doing to me?”

“Me?”

He'd never seen innocence like it.

One of the topless giantesses, reached far, far beneath her, picked up a perfectly white weasel that had been trying to nibble at something it had detected under the sand, and tossed it high in the air, above the head of Slua-Sryh, Queen of Waat - snatching it out the atmosphere, distractedly, one handedly.

She comforted the creature that had been surprised, but not overly disturbed, by a sudden gymnastic change in location.

“You think I'm going to lie to you, I'm not. - You're a slave.”

She was pregnant under that dress.

“Why would I go to the effort to lie?”

With what?

“I doubt it's any effort, ” tuning in the Orach, at least adding to it a greater measure of conscious attention - if it was that: