Supernatural organs and no choice and no will; all the same thing as his having given him a quest too, the same one, exactly the same one; it was the same quest. She explained that to him, on top of all the rest of it. And this was the point at which his own consciousness; he thought, but this wasn't true, allowed him access to the memory and knowledge that in fact this was true.

Pry had given him exactly the same - his part only reinforced her, only revealed there was no alternative to her. It wouldn't even - it wasn't the case of revealing something in scrolls that revealed she was a fraud, had prophesied nothing, or accurately, but wicked, or even that she was giving birth to abomination. Her lover; her filth; her shit; her bestiality; her son; as she'd said herself - it was that all these quests, and who he was, were in fact identical.

No difference: retrieve the 9 scrolls of prophecy from the Black Chest of the Scrolls of the Prophecies of the Queen of Waat, and reveal the accurate and inevitable, in fact imminent/immanent prophecy of the birth of her son.

It was the same thing. He understood nothing. He understood nothing; and even less as these winds of attributes continued to assail him, of the colours and the images of demonic copulation, sensed and indeed actualised in reality by supernatural organs, whether hers or his he couldn't – but nothing -

Intimacy.

Destruction of the self.

A mission, a quest, that was the destruction of himself.

To prop up, and he knew this now, supernatural organs or not. Only more double-crossing and lies and lies - and lies and lies and lies and lies and lies -

and lies. and lies. and lies that were transportation because he wasn't there anymore, he wasn't in that room - she was fucking her son; he was in her womb, he was her womb; her womb; her womb; her womb; her wicked wound – he wasn't there anymore pulled through the sails of that jade dress; same thing as the walls and the masks that had disappeared; same thing as that space that - only an arena of sand and weasels, nude supernatural beings; brains intentionally damaged and warped out of all relationship with consciousness.

Even consciousness, even animal instincts and the guards, and that flat space, the pond; anything else gone; in this world of swirling obscene colours and that foetus hung above all of it.

- twirled in the 18 connections of the placental sack, visible hanging above him now; for he was under the dress, a jade corridor - the combination Cyclops' womb outside her body.

The sacred-malevolent child, worried into wicked folds of ancient flesh, terribly terribly wicked and wounded and old, and worn and flesh, in folds and layers.

- Dry skin and parchment lashes; three eyes atop his head, each closed mercifully, but regarding him with passivity as it copulated with its mother in eighteen umbilical cords; folded around her, penetrating her body, ravaging her flesh, consuming her amid the entities from whom she derived nourishment.

Beneath her dress was a transported realm; purple and red sand, turquoise swirling sails thrown out its orifices thrust in a backwards wind behind, dragging himself toward her, separated out, sick in his own lust for mother that disgusted him, that made him wretched in - but he had no choice, looking up at her slickness, only understanding his approach to it and her as a weakness he could never surmount or conquer; just the umbilical cords, all eighteen plunged into her flesh, from the withered three-eyed child.

The cords plunged haphazard into her torso, but - and indeed inside – she'd said it true, copulating even now – into her slickness, beneath her breasts which was the only supernatural organ that he – it wasn't the only supernatural organ that he -

It was just that in the confusion - his organs or hers - who fucked whom and why – he didn't know this. And that - what hung above him in the transported realm, through the lies that assailed him, directly manipulated his own fears-pathologies as they related to - but nothing – she directly massaged his consciousness as explicitly as anything else, in this transported realm of nothing left but separate hanging attributes; and time and colours; organs folds; and flesh; and ancient youth; and – all of them - these separate attributes – he had no understanding/reckoning of how she was doing any of this - but she was doing this and; he -

Was this sex?