Fuck!

forced to observe what was only a pile of attributes, descriptions, panicked at/hobbled together, for this, maybe, maybe even for this, a Dream Slave -

And where had he heard that title, given him by a demon? He knew nothing... anymore, he knew nothing, he knew nothing.

- He knew nothing.

A mere combination of elements of someone else's dream, he knew nothing, a mere combination of elements, listed out/flat characteristics, cobbled together of a being, an amalgam:

this: a mere amalgam hobbled out of habits, not even his own, obsessions/no connection to, dreams, he couldn't relate to because - they were - merely passed through him; a character in them/not - and never had been the person dreaming -

Dream Slave!

The tunnel barked, spasming waters – turning over beneath all black blood and the oxygen, lack of it, racked him internally; lungs spasming the same way the tunnel was. He swam upward, swam through himself - saw what it was that held it together: mere contradiction.

But intentionally, because this was a weapon, somehow a weapon that had - the demon? No – not this one – anyway, he couldn't breathe - because there would be a moment when they would be, him? What were these incomprehensible thoughts?

Premonitions?

Those in him? Through him? - What were these truths he unfortunately had to acknowledge/pummelled haphazard into him by the demon as the tunnel he swam out spasmed/fitted-up so he could barely swim no oxygen inside him, out it – same time they would be revealed these contradictions. There was a moment; they'd be pulled apart and revealed in their utter unsustainably and then, by means of authority, by means of what was this? Attitudes – what was this? Permitted dreams, permitted realities, played though him, he had no idea - ideas? Flashes? What? What was he?

Because the artificial pink light he followed out the tunnel was a lie[!]

of some kind by these breaks in him, these attitudes rammed in his soul by the demon in its dying-panic:

complete terror in explicit knowledge it sought to direct at him, malformed, semi-conscious, direct into his soul, revealing exactly what he wasn't: a man of any description, a human being, anything beside a list of wants/attributes, that didn't hang because/together - his existence was purely useful/he was made for something.

- For this.

For the things his organs did.

Two seconds from death; Art swam up/out, in liquid night, only the artificial dream shadows/the colours - the only thing he could do, the only way to escape feel/this/escape this -

A Dream Slave was all it was and - and why?

And swimming out/in, following that line of light, who/this thing, it too - he was?

It spoke to him.