This being inside a smart demon.

This necessitated something new.

- And in order to not have to confront this right away, Art[ion] Mlckk'n Inchance-rify the Satrap of Supernatural Organs, the Dream Slave, the Count of Want, in order to avoid confronting that, he'd stab fuck incessantly out a brain organ. The cell he was trapped in.

Art stabbed.

Art stabbed deep.

Art stabbed long.

Art stabbed deep inside the demon containing truths so pointed they were shaped like lies.

- Leaping[!] he stabbed deep above him in the ceiling, of the, brain cell, rupturing something critical in this case because the eruption - enormous - of liquid contents was accompanied by a deep – it wasn't a noise, he couldn't hear it, it was an emotion.

- An emotion that saturated him with panic/self-panic/inward identity panic, that sought to exteriorise the thing that had apparently erupted within it. - Bursting, it was, critical: the place filled with slime at a rate now, now his shoulders, shortly his neck, but this was bursting, interiorly, the thing was dying, dying, the thing was dying, it was dying and it had to die.

Art flashed around for an exit, for the biggest tear he'd made, for anything, for a means of escape. He perhaps should have planned this but his mind was inundated. - He literally had no more capacity internally under the demon's mind for anything other than interminable interior reflections and stabbing, a vast lippy vaginal shaft pipe, the top of which was visible in one corner.

Art dived in the surging bloody muck. He saw nothing; black beneath, and hot on his eyes; nothing - he saw nothing, but -

- Whether it was the Bollock of Want or, whether it was The Orach of Mending; whether it was his destiny, a supernatural organ or merely a gifted way of seeing - whether it was some trail of truth in relation to lies, anything else, artificial, colours, light; that made no sense; light in reflections of - attached to something he couldn't understand, a quality, a madness, a quality to a light beneath black water that he detected along into that opening and he – he knew – that! - where it was -

Art swam to the surface of the brain-cell, breathed, with everything he had, the air that was left; dived back again, and swam deeper into the brain vagina: The tunnel and exit, he prayed, for whatever this place was to perhaps whatever was next.

Swimming up a cavity all black liquid, Art followed the quality identified by supernatural organs.

It was merely forward/up the great panic of dying emotion, the terrible reality of something infinitely worse and next, and imminent, and happening, and moments away. - It assailed him as the last emotional weapon of a demon that unfortunately - reducing the air inside his lungs with every second - he was still inside.

Great death spasms racked the tunnel he was swimming along, following artificial light only detectable by supernatural organs; some kind of lie, some kind of misplaced desire/wilful misunderstanding of the world exterior, this. - Had to be by definition or he couldn't.

This was the tunnel he swam up and out; kept going up and in it towards the rupture out the dying beast he prayed was the destination he was dying toward.

Lungs spent, limbs aching/fatiguing, he fought the storm beneath the waves: the dying fits of the demon whose brain-cunt he swam out.

Vaginal walls barked, panic punched his soul, insanity knocked his eyelids, and he had no breath, no strength, and no self -

Fuck!