Pheel Cazzo ran it all back through his mind as he ran through the corridors, of Old Works.

“His name is Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify.”

On each corner an ancient Cyclops. Not usually ancient given the demographic impact of recent events on said population, but – and really this should be his primary concern. Even if it was a little above him; the fact of there being a genocide, a current live-genocide directed at the most, in terms of how society functioned, important population anywhere; the fact that three civilisations were propped up on the supernatural talents, the contingent ontological capacities, of these beings.

This really should be his real/final/actual main problem. But he was self-involved. - He said to himself in his own head, and then justified it back to himself in terms of his talent.

And also he couldn't arrest the passage of thoughts through his brain too quick again; the same as the corridors that overlapped and replaced over each other out the eyes of passing Cyclops. They were stationary – he was passing or – he didn't know.

Altering the way they saw reality switched the directions of the corridors they insisted existed in the direction he was to go; it was a process whereby corridors, these current corridors he was processing through - there was a whole complex system built on ways of seeing reality more complicated than Pheel could understand or interpret; he told stories, he thought them up, reality for him was story, not interlinking mathematical space-zones existing upon the basis of some kind of measurable reality of perception, or whatever it was - he never really understood it; was incapable of, really, except that it was - space, reality and perception, and the force with/through which Cyclops saw these things; or -

Pheel knew the terms for this stuff and could drop each of them in sentences convincingly enough, but he didn't see the world the way a Cyclops did, or even Demonlord - who was at least technically the same species – no; Pheel saw the world, at least what was true of it, trying to see what was true of it, in relationship to stories.

But his thoughts were these corridors; passing another ancient and true Cyclops, turning the direction of one great regarding eye. Pheel felt, the sensation was rather like reinterpreting, suddenly, in an instant, the reality of the place where he was; it worked, was what it was, after the Cyclops did what he did – Puaz-Byt, in this instance; he knew them all, obviously, at this point, as important as each individually was – Pry-Boak was really the least impressive of all of them.

This was the sensation, and the process, of walking along the eyes; he couldn't feel it was anything other than this. The continual reinterpreting, subconsciously, of the Cyclops, of even the very basic attributes of reality; continually regarding, everything, in a revolving process, a rhythmic, even, dance, of reinterpretation, everything, as having been, completely wrong and misunderstood, before. Specifically in terms of how you had interpreted - that reality and in fact, at its end, at its end point, that point you were continually nudged to continue to insist to believe, in itself actually existed. Except that now it was something else entirely different from that thing that had always existed, and always had been.

This is it and it will never change, how can it, this is what it is, and eighteen seconds later, and eighteen seconds later and eighteen seconds later, the same and the same and the same and the same and the same again.

Some people got upset.

It took a physical toll on one's brain.

He knew other writers, others who'd held this post, they'd been driven mad, often these type kind people didn't need a very hard push in that direction. They were inclined, maybe even – they didn't want it, it was just – it wasn't something they wanted, not entirely anyway - they weren't looking for an excuse to go mad, not their entire personalities anyway. Except maybe one or two or five he could currently recall. But this wasn't the point in these corridors, on the way to the potential de-balling by the Demonlord – by Demonlord - merely distracting himself with routine thoughts; no - but he had these thoughts every time -