But it wasn't. The worst was that it kept it.

The worst was that it kept it. That beauty that, kept him, and would for the rest of his life. Her image. Her. The worst thing was that it retained her visage; retained her face, retained her infinitely abundant beauty. Kept it.

Kept it.

Instead it kept it. Kept it

- but never concealed what was behind. What existed behind it.

Her

eyes too, now, had a tinge of the absolute.

Nothing of that abundant capacity to

return -

Gone with her soul – it wasn't her. She was -

Just the eyes, soulless; the fake thing that operated it, and the fact that it had witnessed the absolute. The gulf. - That it was this it multiplied, this it served, this it loved. Nothing.

That that thing loved that, in her, he couldn't suffer.

She cast off her coloured jacket, the bland trousers, the rest of the standard issue Hortagian attire, and stood on that plane completely perfect, and beautiful, and alive, for everything, the incarnation of life; beauty: the innate supernatural female capacity to create.

Her breasts, her hips, perfectly formed. Her frame. Her limbs, lithe, yet strong in their -

And upon that plane Massimo saw, was forced to see, behind Hortag itself, the very planet in dissolving layers, the ceremony, the ritual, somehow spontaneous and yet – they were all there, they had made every preparation, it was her -

Seen,

those eyes, that showed only now the absolute:

a television tube transformed into a stage, into a throne room, into a platform upon which -

It was her coronation.

Nude before thousands of them. She stood, lifted by her court of Demon Slys upon the summit of a television tube. They brought her her cape, and her corset, and her crown. For this was all. This was all that was required to clothe, to crown, to baptise: her power for eternity.

This was all that -

This was all -

The only/final thing necessary, this was -

it was finished and Massimo willed his mind into the pit of nothing in response to it/was worse, nothing was worse than this new system of government, his love - the Demon Queen of Hortag, it was the worst, it was the worst thing that -

Staring these ideas into him, behind the dissolving images of the planet, dissolving now, dissolving finally out so that he'd no longer

- he couldn't – he had to witness what was -

but objectively -

Dissolved out only in fact to show him more explicitly what it was.

Crowned, caped in the back-skin ripped off a passing Hortagian, she spread her legs and the great queue formed almost instantly - out of whatever dreadful knowledge apparently governed this.

They queued up for it. Her legs spread so wide he thought they'd break.

She bled out it; she bled out herself.

And each of the demons of Hortag queued for their baptism.

Each of them queued up for the blood rite; each of them queued up for the final fulfilment that would make her -

The Demon Queen of Hortag.

In a compulsively ordered process, they queued, fell on their knees before her, and lapped the blood gushing out her cunt.

Drenched in it.

Each, individually ----- baptised[!]

in the flood that would never end. From absolute nothing-love and the holiness required to love that

absolute.

She gushed, and gushed, their faces lapping, five now, on their knees, simultaneous, bathing in it, drinking it - spitting it up on her now too, that flood that would never cease, that drenched them in the waters of the Wound's sexual nightmares.

All the Demon Slys left alive - as far as he could understand it – were on their knees. The Demon Slys were first in the infernal hierarchy. They queued up before personified transcendent beauty, only left, that way, only left that shining physical mirror of former abundance to torture him; to render all of this, in direct proportion to it - always, to that beauty... more painful.

- Unchanging beauty that was the sore on his heart.

They filed up in supplication, prostrating themselves before her genitals shitting blood spurts in instant gallons; each that knelt revived a barking cunt full of blood, instantly covering them –

total immersion in the blood waters that made them new, made them hers, made them her adoring slaves - the Demon Queen of Hortag.

He saw a new society, a new civilisation, born.

He saw it pouring out the mad cunt, and pouring out the mad eyes, of the Wound behind all of it; still pouring it into him. He transmitted these images and that sensation of the baptising blood. Out her cunt: Great placental shards of internal future organs potentially birthed, birthed now in that blood, cunt-shat in the blood with fragments of children.

He saw fast forward potential body parts of all the lives that it was her innate potential to sequence, along that individual pattern - the beauty for it, stored in that fashion. He understood it all, all of the complexities behind those mad eyes, staring a planet and the central events of its existence into him; staring the ceremonies, that continued endlessly of the great rites of that realm that baptised the new reign of the Demon Queen of Hortag -

A planet's undisputed liege.

Each demon, they formed dreamslaves, they formed units of fantasised subjugation, soulless, even more soulless than ever; even more permanently lost, lost dreamin' in her cunt blood.

They queued before her, shuffling on their knees, self-harming in a great file before her; hacking at themselves/ruining their flesh, rendering it solely the thing that continued to spread, ugliness, death, defeat, absolute nothing love and cease, and decrease, and nothing -

always and in repetition, always returning to that great nothing.

They shuffled before her, millions of them, saving her blood – that sacrament - not gushing so wantonly anymore. Every fallen drop they gathered sacred. After the Demon Slys, each dreamunit in that file received the instant bark of the gallons of blood and placenta, and baby parts - enough to splatter them in one great cough that immersed them: covering every outward patch and layer, in what bound them to her permanently.

This body now - this perfect nude frame and image of life - inhabited -

It was the mockery, it was the parody, it was the disgust, that rendered all of this impossible to Massimo, to support, to abide, to witness, to recognise

as a reality that -

that ruined him.

Obscenity on a level that could only be conceived by minds such as these - the minds that now - using him even and continuing to in this instance - to control everything.

In this wave he wished his own decease; he wished his own erasure Cooperating - from the nature of existence itself – conforming - he wished, with all he had - not to be, in response, because being, in response, had been rendered impossible. He wished to die. He wished, he longed for, he would do anything but – just to cease, just to be erased, just not to be – even – even in response to – these memories, him. These memories that made - him him.

This/or death were the only alternatives, and real death, real final nothing. He longed for nothing with such heat, wish such desperation, that it was even a form of loving, that which – only final nothing.

In response to this new system of government. New Works. The blood monarchy of Hortag. Its use of the impossible beauty at the centre of the pain that defined him. It's parody of it. It's exploitation of it. Specifically in order to torture him. In response to this he yearned for nothing so much that he could even love it.

And he saw those eyes.

He couldn't count those eyes.

That saw all this in him.