The Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition set out towards them over the still liquefying waste of ten thousand demons – he thought it was a couple hundred in reality, he'd slain – the same thing, the same fake-soul operated ambulatory scarred up hacked, blood slicked, flying pustule vomiting, dirt-cunt, corpse-cunt –

Cunt!

Cunts.

Whatever was left of them, the other parts beside the hundred neck and shoulder and head still attached columns that had disintegrated into the minging and slippy juice that was everywhere, was clumped up strangely in the piles, too, of powdered blood, clumping and reacting strangely according to chemical rules and procedures that the Fake Soul that Operated Flesh in Repetition did not want/or/in any way... understand.

He merely pulled his massive body – massive; he noticed – much larger and wider indeed than the wasted and skinny frames of the corpses that had been operated by these demons.

In reality they were each different bodies – must have been, but really – no discernable difference could be identified. They were merely those frames that were for the walking around fake-soul's inside them to operate, and that was it. Inside there were various juices; biles, powders, inherent and indeed that was obviously the case, but there was no differentiation.

There were no big ones, small ones, one's of different shapes, size, heights – shades he couldn't discern or recognise because of that painted layer of sanguine over all of them – that burst-flash of barked blood, out a –

Some image fought with him to surface itself, but this was impossible, and apparently connected to something that –

He drowned his mind in corpses – he drowned his mind on the insistence that it be silenced – he drowned his mind under an insistent scream and need for annihilation/death/cessation and the end, in order not to –

And what he was doing.

Clambering over the remains: the corpses, and the waste, inside this corridor of a grid that had descended upon a fake outside plane. Rectangles, other geometric shapes of some kind of edifices in the distance that perhaps weren't even. – Merely just two dimensional edges of planes that went on forever; that turned as you turned against them.

They were merely flat screens displaying a background that wasn't really there; he didn't know – these were the apprehensions that assailed him.

That he welcomed; so as not to think – this was not thinking, the mind played through, not even his own, no connection to – no responsibility. He was merely the thing beneath the mind that played across the surface, a flood of words that he consciously ignored.

Edging against the plane that was the wall of the descended grid, he half sideways leapt over a particularly cumbersome pile of remaining corpse-organ-objects, buzzing the side of the grid as he did. It was a strange, weirdly not unpleasant sensation – but it indicated to him, this apparently was its purpose, that the edge of the grid, the wall, the corridor within which he was – that had descended on that plain – that it was there.

Up and over the weird corpse piles, he picked up his pace, seeking to – he didn't know what he sought – or why he was interested – it was perhaps a mistake to follow anything. Even this momentary curiosity or distraction but – anything could lead to that; anything could lead to that thing that above all else he fought, he sought, not to seek. That was. – His purpose. Who he was. His consciousness; it's entire history.

Memories; His identity. – Because the source of that pain inside him, because this was all this was; was only the absolute. But –

The one thing it was not was death.

It was a pain whose source could never be faced, because it destroyed ceaselessly; it destroyed in continuation – it destroyed in a manner that did not destroy, merely kept him in it.

Infinite suffering that could not be allayed, or even – it was that pain; and it was there and even this internal discourse playing across him – it was a nightmare he couldn't escape.

This was the reason; he admitted to himself – nothing more lofty than this, that he even set out towards this someone who was obviously not a demon, in no sense – was not a demon – there was someone directly in front of him – but for some reason, a distraction merely; merely a distraction – please merely a distraction. This personage. Here.

– He approached at pace at the same time struggling to indicate that he had no aggressive intentions as far as this personage – personage, and what that really signified – he was obviously not one. Unlike him; he thought, for some reason, here, a place impossible for him – here on this planet of demons.

Should he say something – could he across – what was only one short corridor length.

A youth looked over suddenly from what he was doing which was, apparently, observing the possibly illusory structures at the other side of the plain.