The entire scene alone.

“You're saying I'm merely attributes – you're saying I'm merely want. – You're saying I'm merely the subconscious throttled fantasies and desires of anyone, someone, you actually; you're saying I'm the half-directed fantasy-man of the absolutely essential required narrative world that combines three civilisation-planets on the weight of the shared fantasy that is my life and adventures. At least until the tale/the quest/the story/the narrative anyway, this, is exhausted, played out - and you need an entirely other, an entirely new Lie Boy/Slave Lad, to propagate -

“- To prop up anyway the whole structure, the fuel of which, because there's fuel required, is the live-produced dream-juice, whatever, metaphor, of so called dreamunits, human beings, who dream my life/story/quest/etc./shared – every night. I'm in this/this ideology narrative is the background belief system/fantasy structure they're given by the people in charge that literally, in a literal fashion, harnessing this mass produced fuel, out these dreamunits, is seen, this is the verb, an imposition, really on reality through the – means, out of which, they see it - an army, effectively, you said, more a species-race, you say, of Cyclops - one eye. - I've met one, nice chap/lad/person, called Pry-Boak; decent, but anyway, these fellows:

“- They see the/this vast structure, really a bunch of connected corridors, a few offices, maybe; places where people work, do work, but predominantly corridors - that transport, merely by the way in which these ancient beings see reality/the way they impose their managed perceptions on it - not out of nothing but of course they need a story. It's a story belief system thing, ideology, they can impose on reality – if there's sufficient mass behind it in terms of the fuel-juice produced out these, we've mentioned, dreamunits.” He breathed finally. “I'm repeating the whole thing back to you in slightly aggrieved form - perhaps with a slight sarcastic edge for reasons; that aren't - but anyway that's the whole thing - only - you say only – it's - collapsing and you've seen a dreamunit – you're planet anyway you say - Theust, and the whole thing makes you sad and -

“... And you're wife is a -”

“Not strictly speaking wife -”

“A combination Cyclops not strictly speaking wife with an unusual organ setup. Certain ones are like this, depends on the combination, pregnant, in the same fashion, the anatomy you say, as the Queen of Waat, a stand-in - is she a stand-in? For your wife-person whose chest of prophecies I am currently now in the process of – this is the run and fetch it segment of the quest I'm in if you want to describe it like this and you just have so why shouldn't I also employ these fashionably demeaning terms employed by you in order to – not to show myself to be the terribly naïve – a naïf - it's a dream slave, that part's true - the Prince of Multicoloured Names and Lies and the Several Other Titles, an indulgent trope you've allowed yourself as you've just said at pace mere seconds... ago... I've had ashcaff. - It's an organic substance I'm blisteringly high off.”

He stopped, looked around; only two others the other side of the tavern; old men, playing a game of scartratch: tossing the tiles and cards back and forth and, it certainly looked that way, entirely absorbed in it.

Pheel drank from his tankard, smacked his lips: pretending ostentatiously to enjoy the taste of what he'd swallowed there.

Art could see, through the greasy windows, his horse tied out at the post. And the strange trees, and that weird landscape beyond: all through the grease of the windows. - That perhaps even made the place even hotter than it was.

“Yes, but I admire you -”

Pry tried to -