“From what?”

“Merely what they are in order to live you came for reality,” no pause in the sentence he flung a long string of intestinal-ears and lobe-glands in a bucket already overflowing with such: splatting upon the hard keratin of the floor. It was only covered here and there, varnished in sanguine, and to some extent, by the fronds that got there from off the walls, he imagined, in order to hide what was behind them.

“To some limited extent you understand the true nature of reality. You cry out for it in the form of an apprehension inside you of what is truth. Unfortunately bastardised by political expediency, by the requirements of the.... Wrong. All that is shit. Is lip shit off the cracked arse of one of these interior Theustian glands and organ traps. Boy-lad, insane boy,” he was spitting, “insane-lad/insane-boy,” another person again and madness, complete unattached insanity in those eyes. Then calmness and the beginning of another discourse.

Pheel had no idea what he was saying/what was supposed to be communicated. - Was he supposed to look at this man and understand that moving toward reality, that trying to find it, that this insane impulse; his desperation to inject truth into the dreams of the populace; if you wanted to be grandiose about it - but this was actually what it was, this desire/insane quest - that this - Massimo was communicating to him - This? Insanity, was what it led to; or -

“Welcome to nightmare land, welcome to the state, welcome to pure power, welcome to the infestation of lies that - as you can see and you can see, warp weird bodies right from under your own neck pole. Do you want to live? Do you?” Screaming now he stood up and slapped Pheel across the face. “Live! Live! Live!” he was screaming in his face, “Live!”

Pheel got up and backed off, shocked, paralysed with fright, he couldn't; he should do something. This person was insane - this was an insane person with whom he was unfortunately dealing.

“Live! Is that it, live?

“Reality... Mind? - You want to be inside a mind, you want to live inside truth? You want to hurt your body until you feel? You want to rip out your own dirty insides so that you might die and understand yourself a little more ably as you drip out the shit sink?

“Is this your organ? Or you cock?” He picked up an ear and threw it at him. He - approached/he backed off/approached/he backed off - he didn't know - he'd have to fight/attack back; he hadn't expected that he'd – but he was paralysed and he didn't like what this said – personal courage - but; paralysed -

he wasn't Art - Pheel Cazzo, and

- bloody ears tossed again and again in his face: old man pushing him back; pulling more and more strings of them out the bucket of bowels, cradling a bucket of bowels: firing again and again/directly at him, pushed - him back/organ strings behind -

Behind the fronds/behind the rest; the foliage - he didn't know where he was/where he was going until he felt the pliable pressure of his back against lips - and the – philosopher... he licked his lips and... he kissed him – hard – Pheel -

and then pushed.