There was something inside.

Pheel's living corpse extended out to form an altar; his bones through his legs, and his arms, forming the legs of it; holding the whole thing up. Staring at the ghastly religious object, Art realised it contained something that wanted him.

This thought arrived in the exact moment that he heard the first whistle. Even if they weren't whistling. There were blowing. - The black-eyed girls blew toward him, air from wherever they might get it anatomically, he had no notion - immediately he noticed it/it was on his face, in the air, his clothes; his hair, his cheeks, his supernatural organs besides - the Bollock of Wanting and The Orach of Mending agreed in their interior intricacies, Art couldn't -

There was something in that wind that operated on his supernatural organs. Before that wind pushed him physically his organs were already cooperating; the pair of supernatural glands off his face agreed with the wind, in some sense Art had no means of categorising.

They walked him toward Pheel. Physically the wind out those beautiful mouths did nothing to him, could not push the hulk that was the Duke of the Categorisation of Mendacities and Wanting, another - they couldn't have moved such a supernatural hulk as he was, he permitted himself, if not for the fact that his organs[!]

were cooperating. Pulling him toward the altar that was his creator's living corpse.

He thought about resisting. He thought about the notion of preferring not to be a slave. But his organs dictated a terrible biological logic to him that pushed him irresistibly on, toward the altar, closer to Pheel, closer to the edges torn in his central cortex: the flowered edges of a sexual organ implicit in the very biological thinking structure of that enormous gland of want.

Pulsing at him. Pulsing at him strange rhythms implicit in the structure of not just Pheel's body but his own. His supernatural organs – they were doing new things.

The Bollock of Wanting did not send him into mad spirals of compulsion and self-destruction only when he was on the straight line corridor path of a quest that had importance, had meaning even, final irrevocable, meaning, final reality content even, in terms of the final structure of reality itself. This was what the Bollock Of Wanting connected him to. It ceased its lethal pulsing toward death only if and when he was on this. This was what it did.

And the Orach of Mending. It interpreted across its very visible structure, deceit. It detected these minor tears; seemingly minor, at first minor, and then ruptures and caverns in the nature of existence itself. A tear then a rip that stretched itself apart to -

The Bollock of Want, described as such anyway because it was the compulsions he feared, the self-destruction - he'd killed himself or nearly on too many occasions to count, because that was reality. Despite how his mind had been warped out of the dreams of... this work he was to enter.

Because he lived there. Final reality. Him. Art. He did. Shensh. This planet and plane - this mad subterranean realm of dreams and unrecognisable forces of malignity, beneath. Beneath anyway because – as yet he hadn't recognised, or encountered, anything good. Because -

- he was toward final reality, and that was what/not there yet; toward it.

These reflections pushed - across the room toward the altar created out of the living corpse of the man who dreamed him - pushed through him as he was pushed toward his creator.

He was pushed, by his organs cooperating; acting now, in an entirely new fashion. He could literally feel their appurtenances intertwined beneath his face. He felt them beneath his own face; and reality tear. Something implicit/explicit in the structure of reality itself was tearing as he moved – beneath his face, pulling open his face, marching him toward his face being pulled open - sucked forward in a wind that operated merely on supernatural organs but enough to push him forward. It pushed him in.

Pheel was on his limbs, the legs of an altar. - Bone spurs forced through his limbs/his back extended flat, the ribs through the flesh forming the flat surface: a mad extended organ corpse of an altar out the man who had dreamed him - in the original conception of what he was, but -

the wind pushed the organs, in direct proportion to how much they tore open his face against the vaginal lips – on his knees – of Pheel's opening, continuing to open, his vaginal lips, the vaginal lips of his brain open for the face that tore itself apart in the way in which they joined and Art -

His face - a flat plane of final reality tore itself asunder and flung the flinging rips into the open cunt of his dreamer's wounded brain; sucking deep, deep, deeply, deeply -

swallowed -

in