“Please agree to comprehend the holy logic of this incantation. You understand that this is what's wanted because it is a spiritual lack that wells within them? You understand the consequences of living a life with any morality else? Just as I copulate currently with my child. Just as this entire gestation, is my making love, with my child; our organs entangled and our wills aligned toward the point of orgasm and morality - this is the notion of the sacred in the form of incest. Because that's what I'm breaking into this world, my son, my foulness, my waste, my shit, my child, my husband?

“Let's talk about demons -

“Let's talk about what you have to do -

“Let's talk about organs -

“Let's talk about how I control the minds of my populace -

“All the same thing, all the same public fuck -

“Let's talk about my son, my filth, my lover, my flower, my cunt, my entity, my fashion, my morals, my life, my ethics, my efficacy, my control, my lust - my lust for your lust for me: your moral panic at it. Your lust for my son who copulates intimately inside my body parts, let's talk about that.”

She was a sick fucking bitch.

Behind those waves of colour that were essentially Art's entire consciousness, he could still see her on there, on the throne; he could still see her in the sand - but there was nothing else; no guards; no women; no weasels; no jade walls and no masks.

Just the two of them: her sideways held aloft direct above him; her dress, melding those colours that were the unmitigated lies out her mind; her dress assailing him like – sails of a geriatric sex galleon - looking up her dress in fact, to the extent that he was below it; organs, everything else he could see that mattered nothing.

The parts of her, of Slua-Sryh, the Queen of Waat, were almost separate floating entities now; pink folds and flesh the abstract colour of lies; a jade dress hiding the immanent copulation between; copulation that was gestation: the conscious summoning in biological organs of a demon out another realm.

Her folds saw folds in flesh, he saw the dress; a dark copulation directly above him/behind him now, both sides, sideways on that throne; beneath him and inside him, no separation between any of it and the infinite separate threads of a discourse that was mania, all designed in their overlapping narratives and confusion, to destroy his identity, destroy anything, any basis of anything that he could cling to as a consistent through-line of personality, identity, purpose, will, reason for living, ethic – spiritually; reality perception/interpretation of what was going on/good or anything else; he barely heard her now; he barely heard anything.

All the same time explaining how her constructing her child consciously through the separate conscious segments of her mind was the same thing as copulating with demons; was the same thing as the quest that he had no choice but to stake all for the completion of -