Pheel felt it pulling out to him. Felt the want. Felt that want that pulled for him. - But he had to; they had to go inside. It was next. They were alive, they were inside? Not yet; he was – it was next.

Pheel passed beyond the mouth and it was only when he did that he realised – Art was gone.

A new space, a new corridor, a new opening into completeness. Whatever it was it was whole, in the dark: this was communicated. And Pheel was alone.

Before him a corridor. A trapezoid in the dark, obviously, these same repeated obsessions, even shapes, even the concepts associated. Pheel was alone in the subconscious zone out of which he constructed these worlds/narratives, quests and all the rest. The essential matter from which all of it: Old Works, the rest; Art, even, and everything that formed the fuel that allowed – that made it even possible. A Cyclops such as Pry, any of them, so they could glance enough of it out their coupons. As Art might say. Into the infrastructure required to transfer, any of it, anything that mattered:

repeating to himself endlessly the basic facts of his own life as if repeating them he might understand why instead

- of -

Let your thoughts run, this was it. Being here was writing. As he said, not Art this time, out the back of his own nut:

The trapezoid corridor; the mist instead of any discernible floor on which he could stand. And behind the shadows that formed the walls themselves, a pulsing, beating rhythm, in colours, turquoise, predominantly, but beneath that some kind of orange and red.

But where was Art? Moving forward he asked himself this. Other things too. Where was he? And why wasn't he surprised that he was suddenly not here, suddenly not here and suddenly gone?

Because he wasn't. This place was right. It had to be this way. It inevitably was this; perhaps the reasons Art was no longer here. Dreaming? Was he dreaming? He felt lulled, dopey on the corridors of his own obsessions. A trapezoid corridor in the dark carrying him forward, into his own mind? His own reflections/repetitions? Obsessions, into the dark forward, into it, into this feeling too. Generating this space himself. Was he mad? Was he dreaming? - Were the words in his head creating this space - and not only for him? He looked. He kept going. A trapezoid corridor, floor-mist, beneath it colours, the same repeating.

He headed forward.

Lulled into himself, into these reflections. - Had he sent Art away?

Because it was necessary he enter such a zone alone? This gave rise to thoughts. But where was he? Shouldn't he be more concerned than this? And why did he feel that under any probing, any probing whatever, and not in the external world that confronted him... he'd find Art, in fact that he'd know exactly where he was/

pushed forward in this space, along the corridor, the sensation of seeing the image behind his eyes, but of his senses being fully actualised, of his dreaming, but being actually here, inside a Quest Dungeon. That.

That of a Quest, of an actual fantasy narrative, dungeon quest, in the dream mode required by Old Works to produce the good old fashioned juice required anyway... the mechanics ran though his mind in repetition. He was here.

Any intellectual understanding of the reality of it was separated entirely from how it felt actually being here, of how it felt to be inside. It was pleasure, there was no disguising the fact that it was a type of oneiric pleasure. That fed.

That fed in continuation. Round the next corridor the enemies, the demons, he would despatch, in a specific mode of understanding connected to how he understood the ontology, the nature of their being, of these entities, in a fashion connected to narrative that wasn't invincible but merely understood, non-verbally, in connection to his sorcery. Okay. The sorcery that he now totally believed he had the ability to employ, with which he'd fight demons.

This corridor, when he was ready, in fact, would plunge further and deeper down into... this real space/real subterranean dungeon cave in this narrative/quest, that was unbelievably real and really happening in Shensh. In a reality that would have real world consequences; it was real, it was real, it was real - it was a type of real that was actually real, and he needed to say this to himself.

It was real; even if it only took him further into this corridor, and eventually down; indeed deeper, into - he could think about organs, another obsession - obsession. That made sense to him but, into his mind, and further than that - into the way in which he understood these demons.

They were here, those demons - he could feel them peopling the edge of his consciousness.