They passaged down; a new tunnel, a fresh angle down, an even squatter trapezoid. – The colours of the shadows across the walls changed; the flame – where was it – the torch/Tenns – where had it/she gone? The same thing, ripples across the straight rock surfaces, suspiciously – the rippled shadow off the torch directly behind him that cast mellifluous waves upon that perfect plane – they were colours now; an oceanic green, something like – something like a lie that Art might see out his head; something like a lie: a perception played across reality by means of his talent – his perception/his glands, or in fact – no – just showing him what was really there?

How could he know.

Down.

The ripples across his body brought him down; they moved as his body did. He couldn't see Tenns; himself – he was only an Eye. Only one great orb that processed down, that processed through, that wished nothing more than to see[!]

His purpose was to see.

To be the Eye in his head –

But he couldn't.

But his thoughts – it was this. – And if they were trapped for millennia, under, here, in here – underground in the dark and by means of that – forced to succeed or die –

And by means of that –

Eyes, that saw reality flat stark and real, and there, and finally there.

– He prayed for it.

He prayed for it not to fail – but to see. He did not exist. He was not there. He was not real – he was real; just see.

– Where was this coming from? The City? The tunnel? His own mind?

Shadows played on the walls.

Colours; different colours he couldn't see, he couldn't understand. Merely processing perspective through the dark, through abstract planes, through perfect geometric corridors – instantiated there; made – pulled straight from the blocks out of which reality was made, a maze, a structure, imposed – here anyway – by means of which –

he had to see it that way to understand it. He was imposing that/imposing that structure – on it?

Or he was deciphering in fact only what was there?

– How could he know?

How could he know what was real and what was projection? How could he tangle these things out. How could he see through his Eye to what was really there?

How?

How?

How?

A floating Eye, an orb, through tunnels, rendered infinite, rendered passageless – bodiless, in fact he was; merely a passenger through.

The corridors moved or he did?

His Eye moved or they did?

He was an Eye?

He was the space that watched the Eye move through.

He saw out of the walls an orb, three dimensional, floating; Cyclops height through the dark – no body attached, no mind. Pure observation. – He saw out his eye that the Eye itself was what he was/the Eye itself was who he was/he saw –

Beams.

He saw that the corridor wasn't. He saw that the tunnel, even, wasn't – a layer back.

He saw beams. Flat planes; broadcast from – far – far – far back; even farther, even farther, back even farther back so that –

He could not see the source of them.

He saw that they broadcast, or were the broadcast flat dimensions, merely, and that the tunnels only corresponded with these corridors to the extent that they overlapped.

The tunnels went down but these corridors, these planes, went through.

And this was a weapon?

He saw his Eye pass through.

He saw that he was the Eye.

His consciousness reduced to mere observation. To mere movement. To mere perspectives on these planes and the corridors formed by them, the corridors in which he – was; nothing, more but – out too.

He saw that Eye.

He saw it passage through, unattached, he saw it move, straight, he/it knew no other way. He saw –

Barely seeing; barely knowing – noting not even the transition; he saw his Eye. Him; the Eye, the Eye – the Eye that observed – the eye of the Cyclops. The singular sphere unattached, three dimensional, a perfect through – he saw it through; and noting not even the transition, he did, or the Eye, or perhaps it was merely

observation

The Eye and the passage through which it traversed no longer overlapped that of the tunnels.

He'd left the tunnels behind. Only processing through. They didn't exist anymore – they'd ceased to the moment he passed through: only those infinite planes ahead and his perspective on/the same time his perspective on the Eye that processed through them; part of –

How does one see what's really there?

An eye processing through corridors made from infinite abstract planes imposed upon reality. Above. Beneath. Either side. The velocity at which he processed through made no difference in this infinite space. There was no end. Height of a Cyclops. He processed through at a pace that would not be tolerable in any that ended.

This was a weapon?

This was a – dilemma?

This was final reality?

No.

He was/saw the walls. He was the walls seeing the Eye. He saw the Eye that he had been reduced to:

pure observation.

He was observation the same time observation on observation.

Infinite regression – infinitely back.

Repeating regressions; in concentric circles that pulled you in and further down. Pulled you infinitely inside something unable to support it.

– Inside something that necessarily ruptured under the weight of that.

Infinitely down.

The Eye went forward.

– What had he even learned, nothing?

He spoke to nothing.

He fucked nothing.

What had he seen – ever seen? Only these corridors. It was Old Works. It was Hortag; It was Theust. It was the dungeons that each of them were trapped in. Only the same demonic realities ever imposed.

This was not final reality – this was not what his talent apparently was able to and anyway sought.

This was not. A dilemma; a weapon?

Better:

Final Reality?

There was no place farther from final reality than demonic reality which was exactly where he was.

He had passed through the material into – only –

but this was only New Works. This was only the realm of the apotheosis imposed, that was, of demonic reality.

Final Demonic Reality.

So he could not get there? Infinity, or a trick of one; a fake infinity – a lie of it – infinity, a deceit – infinity that was a cycle merely; an imposed realm of fictions, made from corridors, in some – no, New Works.

And he knew he was here.

The Wound.

He knew that – final nothing except demonic reality. He knew nothing – he could see nothing; he could get no closer to anything – this place between – and him between all of it.

He was behind those walls.

He was behind him.

And the Eye processed.

And the Eye went on.

How?

– What was he finally and what was he meant to be?

How do you see through the final realm of deceit into what ultimately, and obviously, finally, is real.

How do your eyes... Eye... how do you get your Eye past Final Demonic Reality – just another name for New Works, just another – so that was where he was – how do you – get anywhere through fictitious infinite corridors that – are –

They act the same way.

He – could not – know where he was or where he could possibly get through here.

– Where he could anyway get to any of it.

He couldn't – but – use this place; he couldn't do anything with it – for – anything, even transportation, even as a weapon – all that dream was impossible – that was nothing – infinite regression; in fake infinities only infinitely reduced circles of cycles in –

If he went fast enough; if he processed clean enough – if he could learn to see clear

enough.

– How, here, in an infinite tunnel? Just another dungeon. Just another corridor-realm, just another – even if the final imposed demonic structure past the material fine, past that easy stage into what was – actually, but not in this case, okay a fiction of the real – even past that, even here – it was no different.

Just more abstract, even farther along; even more complete flat repeat-compulsion demonic reality – but no different – Art/Theust – Pheel/Shensh – Massimo/Hortag – demon chambers; demon tunnels – dungeons, planes, corridors, on/repetition, demonic combat, compulsive rhythms – words forced through a pace; soporific chambers of the familiar, the repetitive, the endless, and – unceasing rhythms. The. Of their own bodies. Of their own blood.

The dilemma: that there was anything past this – that he had gone where no Cyclops in half a million years – into pure observation, into seeing – and all he could see was the fake – all he could see was the lie – all he could see was not final reality at all but the final lie.

Between them and what was real.

He'd seen something he already knew. New Works.

That it was only corridors connecting.

That it was only – only ever abstract dungeons of the mind. Imposed upon all of them by demons.

That behind it all – there must be a way through – he'd only ever find/found these corridors in repeat rhythmic compulsions; the productions, merely the final-lie-maze-dungeons in corridors of fake realities imposed upon them, and inside them, by demons fine by demons.

– The final fake-realities, the exteriors and interiors imposed out the way they saw anything, that was – only the production/productions of demons.

Through this?

Was there a way through this?

The Eye went forward. In/

– He saw out it and he saw in it; he saw in the area surrounding it –

– and the pace at which it madly traversed a fake infinity.

If he was the Eye and the world that saw it -

Just another dungeon.

How did he get through this!

Merely an Eye – that did not even know how to see –

But –

Madness!

But –

It was now it happened.

An infinite distance off the Eye and the world that saw it,

Saw something else.

On the infinite horizon a –

What were they – what else could they be here? – if not demons?

The speed at which the Eye approached these demons, if anything, increased –

Toward a fake infinity infested at the end with demons – watched by the part of him not – if these parts could even be divided, the Eye/the Eye approached at pace demons; obviously demons, without, as yet, distinguishing the separate forms, and indeed what the forms were, at this distance – a fake infinity; it was enough that those forms were.

They were there. Were that. Forms.

Tenns.

– And this was a weapon – this space outside nature; time, reality – this final fake-infinite demonic realm – just another dungeon; this perspective on it, and the perspective on the perspective in infinite rhythmic compulsive –

regressions

– this – all this was a weapon with

which he could –

He saw – demons –

Kill demons?

The Eye and the World That Saw it saw those demons congress before him on the horizon; that horizon that at mad-pace he approached through distances measured in time, straight, direct –

an Eye that merely saw travelling with the world that saw it toward demons, still too far off even to decipherer the shapes –

And then he saw them:

The fake souls themselves. He saw floating sheets of two dimensional quadrates, right angles, flat-reduced cuboids, or what should be, merely shapes – floating sheets of them: turquoise; another organ, another lime green, blocky undulating waves, floating on the horizon but evidently separate entities, formed of flat – it made no sense – cubes, reduced out, broken, sideways invisible, two-dimensional quadrates; cubes, squares, undulating and elongating. They were fake souls, – corpseless, bodiless anyway – and –

At speed he approached from – still – a distance off in fake infinite abstract corridors. The walls moving, him, moving – the panel in which he stood; the single unit of demonic corridor reality. But he was the Eye and the World That Saw it and seeing them he understood what they were and seeing them he understood how to kill... them.