“Love!” Massimo's axe skimmed -

Out the corner of his third forehead-eye the Ontological Wound saw in Massimo's mind:

Clua-Sryh – The Queen of Waat – rotting flesh, self-mutilated, cut up tits, face, supernatural private parts; the final mutilated vision of what she'd done to herself.

His eyes reported this final... revelation. Before him. Caressing his lips, and faces, her bloody fingers trailing through his hair – old Massimo, not the mass, not the King Actor, as he was in the television tube - as he was when he was ready to accept -

He was offered an interpretation. He saw her rotting parts. He saw her flesh disintegrate before him.

His eyes reported this to his brain, in the normal fashion as he'd had it described to him by the disgraceful Science Priests of Theust. He saw the holes she'd stabbed in her own tits. He saw the scarred up face she'd intentionally ruined. - There was no means by which love could resuscitate beauty in something so, intentionally - not something for which no forgiveness had been asked, in any - no regret; no remorse; no... pain. This was not -

She'd committed this act because it was holy. She'd committed this act, only one in a series that even now her son whispered, masturbated, ejaculated, into her ears to perform, standing behind her as she caressed his lips, as she kissed his mouth, as she spat the bile her stomach worked up onto his face and lipped into his orifices -

But he didn't let the axe fly, he didn't finish the job she'd started herself, because her son stared in his eyes, and behind that imminence, he was offered – Massimo, a corpse licking his mouth - offered behind that gaze the interpretation that

the girl.

Implicit in that gaze was the interpretation that this corpse could be – just by agreeing with it to see it that way – could be the girl he'd loved when he was -

When he couldn't know that such as thing as love existed.

When everything he'd ever seen, when everything that had ever physically or otherwise been shoved into his body explicitly dictated that only the opposite was possible. That this was – that this was the only way to live and the only escape was lies, and distraction. That -

She was kissing him. He'd found her. He'd finally found her. He could finally say, he could finally say nothing: just be. He could finally just be, where she was, and exist as he had always been intended to: he could live, and he could be. And he could make love to the corpse that vomited on him -

“Love!” Massimo's axe skimmed – the lips off her face as she poured bile in his face hole; tenderly, removing her amputated parts, that their lovemaking attain as much transcendence

He was permitted to imagine it this way. Even that she was another person.

As he fucked a corpse to bits.