Every time he approached through overlapping/replacing over themselves reinterpreting reality corridors, out the eyes of Slys; one after the other. - Old, old, old, old and desperately old men who forced the way they saw it onto the world. With control of the highest artistic technique compared – it was anyway more impressive than anything he could do.

It was certainly more precise; it was certainly more intentional. Dreaming, was really all Pheel - he was just on the other side of the dream; whether that made him more or less an active participant than the so-called, they called them, dreamunits - that was a debate he'd had internally; it started – oh, just about right after he realised he had zero control over anything.

Every time he approached Massimo Diap'leptico Rampposz, his real name, he had to go through this process. This process of the reappraisal of exactly who he was; everything, actually, everything actually to do with him concerning not just how he related to reality but, his entire self, who he was and what he was anyway doing at all anyway in anyway related to any of this.

It was a kind of moral panic. Sure. He wasn't sure. - Besides there was something about him; Massimo Diap'leptico Rampposz, or Massimo, or Demonlord, as he was called, this was his title - or Demonlord, which, he thought no less officially was his title, even if, at least he didn't think, it was on any archived paperwork. He was the Chief Operating Officer, or executive, whatever - these Theustian terms hurt his brain, of Old Works. - And he was. Technically. Theustian. As vat-bred as any. - Shamefully.

The corridor switched and with it his reality and reinterpretation of everything, and his place in it.

No, it was Massimo; it went like that; surname first.

Because he didn't know. In moral panic. All the things he was supposed to think; his supposed spontaneous reactions to what he should think in the natural tone of voice of the person who really believed what he was supposed to believe and think – but he couldn't hold it together; employed, he was, his job – it was his job to apply story-logic to a shared dream that was the source and fuel/energy of the combination of three... societies.

This was physics. The physical laws of at least this universe.

He passed a Cyclops. But it was less and less possible, and at least without cleaving his brain apart; his mind, in at least two entirely different self-contradictory worldviews and modes of understanding that naturally and necessarily cancelled each other out and worked –they had to; it was who they were - each against the other.

Their very existence a negation of the hemisphere, maybe? Opposite. Because dream logic, story logic, that unfortunately. No matter how contorted, those ideas and concepts, were the laws that stopped the whole thing imploding. It didn't need to make rational sense; there was no danger anyway, they'd given up on - but it didn't even, anymore, in terms of the dream. In terms of the story – but even on its own terms. It was just. - You couldn't hold this shit together anymore just shoving more – arm deep in an orifice - lies up it.

This was the worldview he was trying to construct on the way to Massimo Diap'leptico Rampposz, because – he'd need one/anything else you could be tortured and hanged for, and Pheel Cazzo was not a personality with access to an abundant wellspring of physical courage, or biological fortitude - or really even characterological strength; strength of character, purpose; any other kind. But you know – it was rational - he was talented.

He was here because he knew how to escape reality, a skill he'd developed in response to not having any of the other stuff he'd just mentioned. But now it looked like the only talent he did have, developed in response to a complete lack of something else; that something else, was what he needed now to pull him, but not just, maybe everyone, out of the world made by the attributes he'd developed in response to not having... and round and round the Cyclops-switched-corridors around of these thoughts inside his head.

The corridor switched and there it was, right there at the end of it, the office of the Demonlord - he came from Hortag and they did that over there. All the things Pheel feared because of a lack of physical courage, they did those things to skulls and he was going to say bones, but balls, really, of the -