How many thousands of his children? Of theirs? Dissected alive. Probed, and fucked, and metabolised. And used. Used. Used. Billions. Merely the matter that constituted them.

- Of course you could not agree that they were anything else, beyond merely the matter that constituted them.

But Massimo was depressed too; that's why these thoughts, all true, the landscape itself, the ceilinged landscape too. The visible sky that by means of... he didn't know that part. You just felt beneath a ceiling too low.

It pressed you down. Of course he was depressed here. He had sworn on the existence of goodness that he would never return - and he'd broken that promise, he was here, he was back, he'd returned. Following a path he suspected Phinz-Twoan was glancing before him, at least rendering more navigable. These ravines were purposefully impassable; he'd be upon the flat plane shortly and there - he'd be among them. Among the unseeing horde of his own.

He passed between them, drifting down on his thoughts, gone now, maybe Pry had them, but he didn't: a group of pallid, non-communicating grey jackets; faces barely glancing from the floor, completely identityless, exactly the same flat-repetitive faces, the same shapes over and over as if the flesh itself bent to those shapes that bombarded them the final reduced core of sex-forms that, it depended on the rhythm, in their rhythms, induced them to copulate madly/depressively, producing yet more and more and more of the biological material that together with that fuelled from dreams,

kept the whole sick gang-fuck proceeding.

But Massimo drifted continually down, sturdy Phinz-Twoan behind, steering him; he at times felt. He was prone to this sort of mothering. But that was fine. Massimo indulged him into the crowd that he joined, feeling his consciousness depart to some extent with it.

Drifting among them for a time longer than perhaps he could grasp, he fell on a new plane of the television corridors in which the dreamunits of Hortag suffered, bled, copulated, and fed; generating the excess life exported.

He felt that; that black winding down into the predominant mood on the plane, hardly seeing himself, hardly remembering who he was.

He noticed, at one point, his own jacket, his own body was identical to that of the rest; a slouched, pallid, floor-watching, dragging hormone sack, including organs, discounted. He followed those ahead, the same dishwater jacket, the same dishwater jacket the same colour as the rest that he fooled. Out of himself momentarily he saw back behind that – Phinz-Twoan had glanced him out that way. Identical to the rest. - And he should really have asked/told him to do that - but as was so often the case the Cyclops was ahead of him in terms of imposing on reality the proper way to regard it. You could think about - but this happened.

He glanced back, in regular terms: Phinz-Twoan was the same thing, just as average, just as pallid, just as stooped and floor-watching as the rest. They only glanced up enough to see the directing colours on corridor edges in that perfectly flat, nondescript, depressing plane; same insistent nagging feeling of a ceiling directly above them, and where they had to go next.

Massimo, his old life, who he actually was, Old Works, barely hanging onto any of it any longer, just on that plane among the rest of the identical nondescript mass around him.

In his own head, in his own fantasies, chemically manipulated and expertly structured exoterically, not by him certainly, not by any of them, despite that illusion that was allowed them, and in fact was essential to how any of this functioned.

His entire existence was the desperation to get back to the corridor, to fill his corpse with the minimum nutrients, he – it was a want - to fuck and get it over with; to expel his liquids, all of them, as and when, at the time required, in the way required: shit, piss, and semen, anything else in that moment required, a desperate want: to evacuate it.

So he could sleep. So he could dream. So he could get back to his real life.