Pheel had seen nothing.

“That's where they're killing them. Right in their own place. No Cyclop has killed another since the birth of their religion -” he looked at Pry - “Not once. Since it's dawn, in five hundred millennia, not once. They don't have crazy people.” This was directed at Pheel, “They don't have mental illness.” He breathed in a peculiar fashion, a puff of air, too consciously directed, “Obviously I would say it's technically not true but -” even Massimo acknowledged the ridiculousness of that statement given what their world was directly constructed out of - “You know, true enough to suit the vicissitudes of your personal agonies, Pheel Cazzo, you comprehend? It's not true.” He laughed at Pheel, “But you can say that for it. There's nobody dead/been killed anyway, in that time. And that's, most authoritative sources concur attributable to the religion.

“That they believe there. It has an effect; a moral effect on their behaviour apparently because before it was a blood bath and that's a big deal with a low birth rate, as we can all acknowledge – so maybe that's why. Okay Pheel, I won't ruin it; enjoy your sweet reflections on universal truths or whatever. I won't ruin it. But there's been a spate. - Okay more than a spate it's been a massacre. But after their year, then they have to return there, don't they, and there's a lot of years coming up – did you know that?” Pheel knew that. “And what do we do when half the ten thou we have left has to -”

They could all feel, all of them prickle; Pheel felt Pry next him, but it was even more stentorian out the pores of the Sly - colloquial terms, were, at times, employed, not necessarily polite but not hateful – Phinz-Twoan:

don't discuss the ceremonies; like they really understood what they were anyway.

There were rituals, apparently, ceremonies, they had vaguely been informed of; necessarily without which, seeing the world was no longer possible. Without their being able to attend these annual ceremonies. At different times, of course; the anniversaries of their various initiations into seeing the world the way they did. That was; transforming the world into what they did see. They could do this, in the ways that I/we - have sought to – outline/understand.

But this ability was, it seemed anyway, Pheel thought, connected to how they saw reality. Even if he felt the immanent fact of their not being able to confront this apparent truth, nor its consequences. And it was not something, in Old Works, for the reason of their unavoidable presence here, that could be discussed.

- But they had to go there and anyway, and it was a problem every year, the class of 58', with its particular calender date, being so, unprecedentedly, huge - but even more now; so much more now -

“Another reason, no? We can't manage the technically speaking bullshit with over ten thousand - how is it possible with 5000 tired and near death with the work before the 58ers return?”

“Stop adding post hoc explanations/justifications for -”

“And Clua -”

“And Art, let's talk about fucking Art? How dumb do you think I am? It's a direct insult – it's/frankly -”

“I'll go.” It was Pry, and he didn't know why he said it. In fact it was his mouth that said it - but he wasn't exactly sure it was him that said it; let's say - Pry could, that his organs – ceremonies that could not consciously be confronted, Pheel thought – had, he could agree that his organs had, physically generated the sounds constituting the words, but - “I'll go.”

“- That's why you're here – because it's a slaughterhouse over there.”