– he saw all of them – he saw -

Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify

Pry-Boak

He saw –

his own Pheel Cazzo, he saw -

And he saw the other place and the other thing too.

He saw the trifold reality in which he found himself.

He saw what he was working out the destroyed organs of his mother's beautiful flesh.

He saw what he could work out of beauty that had wilfully destroyed itself permanently; irretrievably - and he saw the holy love of death that made all of it – anything.

The room was three sided; three-worlded.

The television tube.

The throne of the Queen of Waat.

And the Womb Booth of Theustian biological surveillance -

- all three demented realms combined.

He saw Clua's crown.

He saw the throne which she floated across, beneath the colours and the organ slides.

There had been no Queen reality transmuted out the dream itself: it had always been her, torn from the warped obsessions of a mind that –

And beneath the mad intoxicated pulsing of the television tubes and the induced rhythms that it poured into him - that it continued to beseech him with - he saw the Queen's open dress, her hacked open cunt and tits; he saw her bleeding gash, the shit pouring down her queenly thighs, and he saw -

The dream.

Enveloped in the baseness, the atmosphere, Shensh combined with it all.

Turquoise masks in planes that fashioned the walls of a throne room; masks made from flesh - faces/beauties torn in wicked sneers - black eyes seeing everywhere, seeing it all, seeing: all of them - spitting out organ parts into it, spitting the sides off livers, chambers of pancreases; spitting pan parts off their lips, no-tits, panko espadrilles off into it.

Insane tall-necked topless women, congregated, neck tits, jacking themselves; dwarves, cutting off their own pricks, playing tiny humans with the flesh they'd torn off themselves; the mad – the mad wind out the turn from which the Wound warped itself into these realities, imposing its perception on them, by seeing them in that fashion that combined them all.

That Wound in reality. three eyes. That newborn. That –

three-eyed,

walking black-caped sneer.

A promenading vision of the bliss inherent in the holy love of non-existence.

That thing, that thing, that DEEEEEMON![!] imposed its lie upon the shape of reality itself and three zones, in three rooms, three realms, and then all combined.

In that instance, seen out one faithful eye behind; his weight, his entire weight the way in which his friend saw him; the weight he'd fought by long means to make real upon his own flesh, by making himself - writing by means of his own consciousness, and entirely internally – returned - the culture itself from which he'd been deprived.

By – this was how he had made himself the King Actor; he had given himself that stature. With the knowledge that had Phinz-Twoan.

This was final reality; he'd done all that, he'd done all that because she – not Clua-Sryh, not the lie, she had, not him - that poor abandoned-anonymous girl, yearning for him beneath the weight of something obese and obscene. She'd exchanged something she never got back in return, risking everything, tossing off underserved, unreturned - all of reality in that glance that – loved him.