Ash everywhere. The plane was carpeted in it. What did he know?

– He did not know.

He didn't want to – couldn't actually – start listing the things he did not know. He was there, was –

was what it was, and for some reason he had the terrible, insistent – it was an absolute imperative, at least now, at least in this instant, need to fight –

because he knew, this was also inherent in, perhaps what he was – he didn't; he didn't know – and to try and list the various things he did not know – he had to look outside himself.

He had to look out. And this plain. It had its own angles. His mind insisted upon – it saw them there; his mind insisted upon seeing a sort of geometric grid upon what was only really a plain, ash everywhere; grey/purple/scarlet/red/crimson/beige burned up, ash.

He reached down and touched it – it was like powdered blood. It was like – it was a sort of grey, red, purple – and he didn't know beside – that it was obvious that the sand; blanketing the entire space, this plain – and those certain geometric edifices he could see angling out of it at the end of it, between all of it – but the sand, the sand, the same colour as the sky, was powdered blood.

A sort of purple, scarlet, grey, powdered sandy mass, that ran between his fingers – as he fought not to plunge into a list of reflections he couldn't understand – that would provide no answers anyway. No concrete solutions. Nor – even – clarify concepts, as it regarded, or indeed in terms of it being actually for anything.

Because he didn't know anything, including, rather patently – who he was.

[And on a level even further beneath this; there was something else he couldn't look at; observe; consciously acknowledge – for the fact he was not even consciously aware of it. In every sense that wasn't conscious, of course; in every other sense beneath the absolute surface of his reasoning self; the words anyway that passed through his mind – in any sense beneath this: he even technically couldn't recognise the Cyclops that stood directly behind his back. Even as if he was the one seeing him there. But he couldn't see the one seeing him. The person in fact currently being seen, out of that epic Eye. That single, massive, ocular passage; to somewhere else. – He might have thought this if he'd even been able to consciously regard it. He had an Eye in the perfect centre of his forehead that looked him out, and in fact, saw him there – In a vision that comprised him; him first; his neck and shoulders, and then the plain. But – how much of this was – how much of that had anything connected to that imposing and ancient statue; the Cyclops – wouldn't – couldn't necessarily – be a question he could even begin to formulate – but anyway it wasn't this. He was behind his body, his shoulders, his wide back. And over that shoulder into the first tier of what was perceived; this was seen out the Eye. But seeing any of this, it all required his not having what he did have: the essential psychological impediment, sitting on him – so that – he couldn't even see that the Cyclops stood directly, always directly, almost on him; almost attached, almost walking him along – behind him.]

The plain, was, itself, descended grids –

a new space entirely, upon that plain of descended grids. Those grids formed the corridors of the space he occupied. Grids in terms of the individual constituent panels of reality, in this reduced to demonic dimensions hellspace. – No barriers between the individual cells. Each was just a unit of reality. In other times in other places called reality panels. He avoided any internal confrontation concerning how he could possibly know – this or other matters concerning. In terms of moving through it – each square panel one stood in, constituted the primal blocks of demonic reality. This place – it of course was merely a corridor imposed upon a plain between – spaces – one merely couldn't move through, forming the planes of those corridors. Seen there so that everything was formed into those spaces for the management of the compulsions, of demons, moving forward merely through – how they saw the world, how they forced you/them/you/them – to see it too.

He set out upon the plain – the powdered blood sand beneath him crackling, crickling beneath his tread – air pockets in the blood itself – freeze-dried; they burned out, he didn't know, he didn't – burst.

– But he had to fight a listed discourse of the things he didn't know. Being outside – this place wasn't even that – was his only option against plunging inside that interior that was only unanswered questions; was only ignorance; a type of mystery that did not sustain, only – eradicated. – With this sense of what awaited him, inside him. – Inside even as he realised he had no identity; despite, even, as he realised – he had not... mind – even despite himself – beside these words that flitted through him – he was only these words, and the plain; powdered blood surface beneath. He was the grid; and the geometric shapes, and angles – at the other end forming... structures/buildings that he couldn't interpret or understand.