The Dream Slave moved toward the end of the hall. He hadn't known/didn't know who he was and it didn't matter – he was used to being erased. He even had attributes at this point he couldn't identify that informed him of the verity of this; fine, he was fine, he was erased, merely erased again. – But he had his purpose: slaying demons/

But now this purpose, slaying demons made the demons themselves, in some sense he couldn't reconcile, truly understand – except for the fact that he could definitely attest to the truth of it: slaying them made them stronger.

Participating in this made them stronger; agreeing to play along, not caring who he was beside the Demon Killer, merely being that action repetition process through these halls. – This reinforced the demon.

Killing the demon, playing the fake game of fighting him, made him stronger, made – it didn't matter how many of these real fake-soul operated demon entities he killed in these repeating abstract hell-halls; how many pitiful specimens barked out of hell's rotten throat, cunt, every death, every action, every moment, every participation in his/its/his/its dream made that dream more real.

His – even – participating made the dream more and more.... functional... made this world more irrefutable/unassailable; in fact, made it – made it even fucking happen at all... for the demon who dreamt it.

For the Demon who Dreamt him.

Dreamed.

He had the organs that attested to the truth of the thoughts that played through him; ignored those that were clearly mere feints at the behest of the demon; to sink into the repetitive rhythms, to kill in continuation, to repeat corridor after corridor, in repetitive slash-kill-strafe, backup fire, slay/

flash, fight; kill, fire – step-up strafe, fire, and step out – as he was currently doing – the side and lets the guts fly happy

corridor-repeated-corridor-operation; and then the next one.

The next demon-type – this one and then another beside, this one's lip-face/his face all lips and cocks for ears – and cocks for tits that pissed – acid all over him – this one an arse for a face that shat acid at him; this one a great smoking mouth for a chest that smoked him out and shot fire balls at/in him.

He stepped aside/stepped back memorising their only rhythms. He ran over weird boxes his body absorbed – numbers appearing between reality and his perspective.

He needed ammunition; that was the word, for the gun, that was the word – transmitted into him outside by a demon, wishing to grant him the terminology in the game in the dream, in the joke – in order that he be lulled into its repetitive-satisfying, obsessive rhythms; feeding the part adjacent to meaning in him, distracting him in a through-line of the temporary satisfactions for temporary compulsions.

Over and over he walked through this same rhythm, through this place with strange forms of sorcery built upon the mechanical functioning of mental – he was dreamed, and this was so – but – he didn't understand this place; that he was inside, and what it was.

But –

the demon whispered that he was made for this. For the killing of as many demons as he wished; infinite demons, just keep killing demons, just keep killing them but never question the structure of the dream or the identity of the one who dreamed him.

He had to care who he was –

this was the answer to those ruminations forced in him implicit in the structure of the/this place itself – it was – the only way he'd find out who dreamt him.

Was –

Who he had to kill.

He had his purpose. And perhaps – this was sufficient in the end – sufficient for him to be... who he was.

He had to kill the demon who dreamed him.

He was: the Hero For Killing the Demon Who Dreamed Him.

Because –

Demons. End of the hall.