And he knew what the machine did.

The screen displayed the fantasies of those children. Flick a switch. A tap beneath each child. The user could induce in them, in their dreams, in their fantasies, any variety of fear; of nightmare. - Anything preprogrammed, in that machine, that was even worse than their actual living existences. Then flick another switch and turn the tap that poured into one of the beakers provided. You could drink that fear – and then whatever that did to you.

You could enjoy whatever that did to you.

His eyes reported this to him. - He wasn't imposing anything upon reality, in terms of this device transported by the hunched Science Priest. He didn't force this thing to exist by seeing it there - only the means by which it was transported; only the means by which all of its components were; only the means by which the people who enjoyed such devices could; only the -

Only everything that made any of this possible.

Everything his culture had told him he had to do. Everything he had been brought into the world knowing, because it was natural, it was unavoidable, because his gift must be employed, must be used - and this was exactly and only what his gift was.

It was good.

And it was good.

This was the manner in which Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] fought for goodness. Would. Had to. Had no choice but to. This was reality, unavoidable, a natural consequence of numerous processes and anyway inevitable and anyway good.

The child torture. And the mass murder. And the killing everyone. Pry saw through the corridors he was charged to elicit there, that all of this was not only inevitable, necessary, unavoidable, but in a certain fashion, he had been taught the reasons why; it was holy, and it was good.

And it was good.

He saw all of it as it actually was, all of it and in that moment -

Tenns.

He saw that -

He saw that it had to be destroyed; it had to be, he couldn't see this place in that manner required to continue to enforce its unnatural existence, to prop it up - he couldn't continue against anything that remained that was good in him to continue to make this abhorred reality real by seeing

it -

he couldn't/he couldn't/he couldn't/he couldn't agree it was good just because he'd been told it was necessary/unavoidable and anyway just agree that –

- that this was what he was real for: to make this thing real it

– it was good, it was good - it was/

this was

goodness itself -

It had to be destroyed.

It had to be.

Father.

It was on wind. That word. It came to him through the gaps between the corridors themselves.

He felt it beneath Old Works and in the walls; he felt it transported through him, he felt it beneath everything.

- He felt in fact that it was this word he was transporting.

He pushed this word through himself and the corridors and saw it there.

He saw the total structure. Not just his corridor; not just the momentary connections in products, in filth, in the scum he transported between - not merely his slice of the whole -

He saw the totality.

He saw it.

Father.

And he saw who was whispering to him.

He saw the Wound torn out. He saw the walls. He saw -

Father.

What had to be done.

- this was the final idea that had been revealed. It was so holy in fact that it elicited a sexual thrill, in both the mother and the son.

They joined each other, above them, walking upon the wind he saw there for that purpose. She continued to stab the knife into herself, living still because he saw her that way.

He kissed his mother's supernatural vagina, in the fashion of – they saw his three tongues warp around her clitoris swollen to burst, this whole time dormant. They watched those tongues 360 degree unscrew it from its hatch - they heard the tendon-click accompanying -

same time his lapping that sheathed ocular passage -

they watched it, they watched it, they watched the vomitous rite, for it was profoundly religious - the mother's sexual ecstasy, and the son's pride, they watched this too; his erection stabbing her flank, slapping the outside and then deep inside, forming an new orifice he fucked along side it, flashing out behind the organ-sewn cape that flapped in that supernatural wind behind, they watched this, they watched this, they watched this -

Upturned by the doom chambers that trapped them flat/supine beneath this; paralysed in their righteous inactivity; the doom-domes swirled geometric patterns around them. Inundated – they were inundated by the insane chattering of shapes that made no sense, of colours no eyes could interpret/in some sense finally really see;

upturned and paralysed beneath the rite they had no choice but to witness - they couldn't even move beneath -

The future they had no choice but to passively bless.

The world his face.

The Wound's twisting tongues pulled the eye out his mothers clit.

Swirling insanely, now - four eyes in 360 degrees -

Clua-Sryh's clit eye opened and -

The world ended.