and over and over again.

“You're a slave, Art. You.”

“You are a slave.”

A slave to the irrefutable causality of who he was. Wanted out minds; forced through them, forced to exist solely as the shadows of his own titles and those organs too. No difference between, the same thing, just floppy organs, a slave to floppy organs the same as the polyps he burst shattered

in liquid-glands/slime all the way up the inner wall passages of that infinite demon he was inside, only more lubrication that increased the functionality of his – supernatural – organs – supernatural – in there too.

A demon.

Inside it.

Himself?

Him too?

No.

Slave!

Uppercut slash, through an exploding polyp: a turquoise slime ball defecated out a wall panel, puckering momentarily as anus lips: the world now that Art, Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify, Count Art[ion] of the Thing off his Throat - the Prince of Multicoloured Organs, the Duke of Wanting, the Marquis of Multi-hued Mendacities; The Knight of Simulation. Lie Boy. The Hero of the Pink Ear; the Avatar of Want, and other things too. Real titles he knew he had heard and existed in distinct memory sections/more than one organ told him were true – but, maybe, subtly -

The world now that the Avatar of Want lived in, the Simulation of Need, the Fake Hero - titles, titles, titles, - and slash! -

he was a simulation of need.

But slave.

What titles had a slave?

The slave of wanting. The slave of... what title had a slave, the slave of dreams. The dream slave. What titles did a slave have - really? Real. - What - did he have of anything that was real? Crowding him, the demons - half wanting them to kill him – too/but -

he'd be no slave then, no mere title clothed in impulses, obsessions, dreams, compulsions/above all – lies -

Stinking lies, a slavery to lies,

lies, lies, lies, lies,

He'd never escape this. Even obsession. Even conception. Even impulse. Why. Even the dream, that everything he saw was a lie – of course it was, in here, it was all a lie, in here, but – not just obviously, not just. Something had broken, something – it had entered him in this quest same time/same way he'd entered this demon: a slave/a demon/a slave/a demon; - the same thing?

On him, slung around him, another, screaming, leapt another: fat polyp-lads of fat, shat out colours only the indications of corridors, shapes, walls. - Around another, barely feeling himself: every fight/movement, a response to a lie; the only way they operated, conventionally:

- I'm really going this way, but another, and he knew exactly, I'm really going this way, but something else, too obvious, too rote, he wanted – a want! - to fall into them, at least now, be submerged in the obvious compulsion to die. - This was all these beings were; a response to what was going on internally, even explicitly, this and this, and this was in fact, the complete misconception?

- This thing of being forced into the lie of what he was? Forced into truth? - For it was true? This playthrough of lies, this joke of mirrors - this?

Could a demon... could a demon disable you with what was true?

With what was true...

Who was he? What was he?

Where?

What kind of dream.

No questions for the middle of a fight with supernatural entities. He burst a bile-filled polyp bigger than him: no[!]

further polyps, into a thousand, tiny - and running all over him, crawling up his skin, numberless, flesh, millions - the whole world now: nothing but polyps -

not even the walls remained and the colour: those strange hues only present in dream

- that – he burst up and through the millions of infinitesimal organ lumps, running towards the end, the hall – running/running/running now, forward, throwing his/the body through them; breaching first, like a birth, past lips, in

filth

another corridor, still running a further chamber, all colour, still running, tumbling/falling, penetrating through walls into subterranean realms all beneath – falling, no running, falling, no running, fall no run burst stop

/all beneath that too, and

fall no run

and

Somewhere else. A chamber.