He rounded a corner and saw – them -

Ears. Man-sized; right along the walls. Pink ears, red ears, blooded; bloody in places. This was just the liquid everywhere and all around him. He pulled himself through it. - What was this he had been brought to this plane for? For this? To see this? These deranged experiments. These monstrous works of art?

The bloody ear corridor opened. Both walls either side him: a queue of – or was it a bas relief – or was it a montage – or was it a media product – or was it a mural. 3D and real and sticking out them.

He approached the first, twisted, curlicued organ. And stopped flat, observing it, and he saw that it was worse. It was worse staring flat against it, because – he could see that there was something else.

On the ear, larger than him, and pink in the – in the corridor – bloody gas-mist. An ear larger than a man.

A real human ear grown to such obscene proportions is an ugly thing.

Merely a part of the human body he felt – there was a world in which this could be beautiful; but these things had not been sculpted, grown, bred for that. There was - something quite obviously foul in what he confronted.

The mist itself, that circulated them, was a means of communicating emotion - there was no way in which any of this could be blamed on his projecting his weird attitudes upon this; these objects – obsessions; themes - it was in the mist – this was what he was supposed to feel -

Something else.

Two it was -

Each ear had a face and a cunt. A visage, and a cut. A mask and hell.

The interior helix starting beneath the top fold of the ear curled inwards forming, what was a – this was apparently a running theme – what was a... human vagina. Again, in its own way a human body part that was beautiful but here, in this fashion, through this mist that imparted necessary attitudes - or not that, it wasn't that, these were real sentiments escaping this object. They were only relayed to him – this ugliness, of its being ugly, was deliberately imparted to him. He could see it no other way.

It couldn't be seen any other way, there was – something against beauty, something against it and this was only another emanation of whatever that thing was that above all other things wished the destruction of beauty, and of all those things and people, ideas maybe; concepts, that could be said to possess it.

But again this was only a feeling. Communicated to him deliberately by the mist.

The lobe fused direct into the wall so that - it buckled in, even, so that there was room for the thing that was obviously supposed to indicate that lobe, or in some sense replace it – it was a human face.

Glancing around he could see that each ear – it was a different human face, a different female human vagina, regardless of what kind of face, male or female, or indeterminate. Each ear had a ripe swollen cunt, that Pheel knew again, in some kind of deep sense of disappointment, wished his, like nothing else, his entering it.

Any, either; these ears. They desired his fucking them. Which he was against. In some sense the auricular organs of the pink faced agonised screaming miserable visages, flat out the walls, eyes closed against reality, wanted this/communicating the fact of his being entirely free to choose which to enter.

Disgusted, Pheel, knowing only too well, inevitably, what was next, disgusted; merely glanced around for the prettiest face. There was nothing. Twisted in the obscene agonies required by the planet-concept, Theust; no face could long possess anything like beauty or even pleasantness. Their agonies were too close - too frenzied, too inescapable. But nevertheless, there were degrees of ugliness, he could attest - without hurting his soul irreparably - and so Pheel glanced around – these qualifications – for the prettiest face: