This was the discourse:

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This was it.

Everything was hostile.

A girl. She was eighteen - he was 22. There's a rule you don't fuck the young ones too much. Socially imposed. You can't fight for them. You can't work yourself so you're nearby in case the siren goes. It's all. Implicit. He'd seen her immediately entering the corridor and he was in a dream, because of it. She didn't look like anything, anyone, he'd ever seen. She wasn't a pale, skinny, repetition; like the rest. Underfed. She had too much life.

He'd never seen beauty, and hurt him.

In that instant he realised he was alive. He was real. A real person. A person. He felt. He lived. He was real.

He fought not to stare at her. That would have been. - He couldn't finish that sentence, but it would have been terrible. Merely glancing, fighting himself, desperately fighting not to. Forcing the dream upon himself that he lived in; they; he lived for, every night. Consciously, desperately working it out of him. Desperate not to see her. To live for the queen he'd bedded the night before, dreaming, unconscious, a hero in that other place that was real. There was no beauty here. He didn't live for here. This place was not real, it was not the real. But of course.

Her hair wasn't that sick brown like everyone he'd ever seen - it was – somehow something else. He couldn't look at her. There was too much life pouring from her. She was life. Fighting not to stare, not to approach not to talk, fighting with himself, anything, just to be near her, fighting, and fighting too the emotion that welled in him, straight from her.

This place is real. He realised. A fantasy, a fake, that place; they dreamt him in every night. It wasn't real at all. It was nothing. It was fake. It was story, of some kind, a dream... reinforced merely, in some sense made more important by the throbbing images continually bombarding him in the walls, that his conscious mind barely observed.

That she existed explained this too, to him.

And it broke his soul.

So that, of course, when the images increased, when their frenzy mounted, and the grotesque, loveless, copulating began, the one next him was: something, some entity, some passing bag of squirming rats beneath him. Identityless; shapeless, a hard scratching skin rash of organs piled on bones, beneath, his chemical - hardon - rammed dry inside;

a face beneath that was a cavern.

He kept on, he did it, he did the thing, he did what he had to.

But for whatever madness. For whatever flash of insanity, of self-hatred, of a desperate-desperate hatred of himself and aspiration to live, he looked next him and saw her eyes already on his.

Beneath a sack; old, fragile, decaying, death itself. No less identityless than the various piled organs beneath him: cavernous, toothless, and dead, no less than that atop the girl.

Fool.

He'd glanced at eyes already there.

And he'd seen the thing that he wished ever since - even if it was only ever this that had allowed him to live; forced him to recognise the shape and dimensions of the mendacity in which he lived. But – but in some other sense he'd always wished he'd never seen it. Because the pain lived in him. That image, unlike anything else would never decay. When he was dead that image would remain of her beneath the organ sack, and... and those eyes, and what they told. And those eyes -

That loved him.