- This hangover had legs.

- He had no story by which to live by/ - overarching understanding of how the world he was in, functioned. Supernatural events and crises; massive stories controlled by beings beyond the human; enterprises, involving him, that influenced, he thought, maybe the dreams of an entire populace. What did these thoughts mean?

He knew nothing.

“There are many threads. I don't understand it either. I don't know why it's me; I don't know why I'm here. If I tell you everything it'll only change the next time you talk to a person, or someone like me. She's pregnant. She's a Cyclops. There are women with eyes in foreheads. Not many. They're Cyclops. [plural, thought Art, but he could read his thoughts, couldn't he... he'd had the sincere impression Pry could read his thoughts, maybe he broadcast them - he shouldn't always look first to blame others, and who, anyway, cared] They exist. But they are the rare combination of a certain concatenation of births. We'll discuss another time. With women and certain sexes; or Cyclops and certain sexes in certain fashions.” He glanced at the bucket, with want; Art tossed him another. He didn't want to push his luck with two. Pry caught it softly and munched. It made Art feel happy, strangely, deep, deep inside. Watching a Cyclops munch a totally still shelled chicken egg.

He didn't know about whether Pry was privy to the information that conventionally one doesn't munch the shell but – he would never provide that information voluntarily to the Cyclops. This was an experience too fecund, with emotion, and joy. He wanted also to cuddle him - a mad hangover this was - but thought that would be too much. He was generally confident in his feelings, probably because he was so good at murdering; nor especially prone to overthinking his natural reactions to things. He was more interested in the outside universe - that outside himself, he told himself, anyway. His current thought.

Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] said, “This is not something that we disseminate. This information. It's doubtful, in fact certain, you've never seen a woman as beautiful as Slua-Sryh, The Queen of Waat.” Art imagined a monobrowed Cyclops lady, and thought: each to his own - he loved monobrowed women, it wasn't that, even if they weren't, it was not even the eye, it was the haircut and the fact she could lift him over her head; built like an outhouse in which one loudly defecated spattery shits.

Pry was small for his kind, he knew that, he'd even said this explicitly to him, moments ago; this was one of the reasons he'd known that, if he could trust information that he knew.

“She has the regular number of eyes.” Pry said these words out of his single mouth, not an unusual number for this particular face organ. “For everything - she's a conventional human woman, let me -” he removed a folded piece of parchment from his tunic pocket, flicked it at Art, who caught it in his egg hands, getting it all eggy.

“I hope this isn't important.” There was kind of egg on it.

It was a notice of some kind, unfolding it - a sketch; of a –

- if it was even half accurate; if she looked as much like this as a thingy to a thingy – farmyard metaphors escaped him - then he was right.

You choose who is worthy.

Make your Queen proud.