Every thought that rose towards effort, in Pheel's mind was plunged back into the abyss of interminable psychological recriminations, repeated, and repeated and repeated, as he watched the demons. The Ontological Wound pulled demons out of the atoll of nothing-reality from whence apparently these hateful nothing-lovers all along resided. Worst was that they were pulled through his own talent; his own love, his own connection to anything worthwhile, beautiful, good/true...

or lovely.

He watched that Wound pull the demons in – that vast, chattering, wicked crowd - he felt hating, lying, he felt concocting... deceptions/plotting reality warping lies, he felt -

he felt. He saw it all.

He saw those shafts of final reality penetrated through the wounds everywhere annihilate every Cyclops left alive; fill their corpses with the demons pulled out of the place were hate lived.

To fill their corpses with a fake soul to operate their flesh.

Wounds opened across every corridor of Old Works.

Sopping wounded holes in the structure itself burst open in every passageway, pulled out the doom chambers. Through his mothers mad clit-eye the demons came, transported along any resemblance of anything that could at any point be described as good, from the connection; trapped inside those doom chambers and atomised there - separately unable to function/do anything but observe the destruction of the only reality they'd ever known, seen, ever experienced the existence of.

And the wounds opened, and those shafts of something described as planes, as panels, as flames, lit every single Cyclops left alive and burned his face of; his essentials, his lips, his finger tips, everything extraneous, his flesh, his skin, everything that made him beautiful in the fashion of a Cyclops, cocks - everything that made him recognisably what he was -

The instant the souls departed off these dead Cyclops standing and then kneeling again before the majestic wound that had given them a corpse to operate, that same instant the soul left - it was replaced by the soul that was fake.

By the fake soul that was a demon.

The Cyclops race was dead. Replaced by the manually operated fake-soul one-eyed demon corpses. They watched supine: the genocide of the most mysterious race that had ever existed and –. And the Fake Cyclops – each in their own passage in some fashion falling apart now, their no longer insisting upon its existence, departed through the wounds opened in the prolapsing flesh of Old Works.

They saw it all, they saw it all through the wounds in Old Works' flesh.

They saw the disease pour through the wounds in Old Flesh, and it looked like -

Shafts hit each of the Cyclops in turn, reducing them, burning them, rendering them rotten and defiled by their new occupants.

Pry-Boak was forced to watch the genocide of his own race, overwhelmed with grief, and sadness - he had to watch the whole wicked enterprise the same time questioning whether that holy ability to impose realities, to see, that had defined them, really meant anything/really was of any use or good at all.

He watched them all die; burned out, lips boiling off their faces; he watched them burned and collapse in the burning, and then get up and kneel again, purposefully, this time, before the wound in reality that had given them these beautiful corpses in which to house themselves.

This was the worst thing. That he was forced to observe his race's genocide the same time have his own – have the new ideas that were beginning to shape him; have those ideas from Tenns, from the Old Dark Weird Religion, confirmed in a manner that justified – in some sick sense - the genocide he was forced to witness and could do nothing to stop. To have the beginnings of a new worldview without the old [new] world from which to build it.

But the sickness, of these intermingled ideas, of his ideas, nibbled at him. - The sickness from the Wound that insisted that – it was the only way - this genocide – it was telling him it was good – that it was holy - necessary. It was good.

The Wound watched. Fucking a hole in his mother's thigh, four eyes through the material it pulled out the doom chambers, projecting it all through, and from the source from which he pulled out those demons too; combining this vast, complex, insane, process; combining it all in the genocide of Pry's race.