“They burst into -”

It was out the back of his nut this vast and insane flux of what flew out of him, making a world in interstices, making a world in dreams, making a world upon the mad connection he shared to space he could never comprehend; now tethered, now chained, to Old Works. He'd chained his madness to Old Works; his flight – his innerness, the thing in him that flew was chained to Old Works. To this planet that was in turn chained to Old Works itself. And if that thing he had in him, that was good, connected to it anyway - that one thing he had in his mind that was real, and true, and worthwhile, and worth anything, long ago; before he even understood what it could be – if he had that thing at all, he had bound it - he'd closed the chains – to Old Works.

But the recompense for tying his talent to that – that – binding, was that in the final nature of his being - that thing that was him, enslaved, it was enslaved - in its bonds enslaved, the same way in the fundaments of its being, in the exact same way that was... Shensh... he understood being. He understood that his being, his being, was.... this place/this place and everything it contained. And the tremendous energy even required to understand the mechanics of his slavery and that it was his being, tied to Old Works, tied to everything/this place contained... tied to Shensh so that -

Nothing.

No longer nothing.

Was this anything?

He understood his being in one instant tied to

Art was -

Was this really the way to do it?

“They burst in flame.”

Shensh.

The sticks burst into flames.

“It's being, Art, they -”

“They're on fire.”

One pathetic flame. Singular.

He felt it, across this understanding, in terms of the being itself of the sticks. Their being. Their being in flames; they were in fire/on fire, not a lot, and it was dying... out, he could see... but -

“- See, you're a sorcerer. You're a dirty – bastard, you wizard. A dirty - wizard. Well done. You're a Sorcerer.”

Pheel was a wizard.

“I'm a wizard.”

“Definitely a wizard, definitely are. But,” he paused, “- You got to talk the whole time?”

“This is the comedy segment of the narrative, Pheel replied.” A pretentious weirdo, he thought, and then fuck it, who cares, they were both replete with weird personal - with complexes.

But he wasn't really thinking about this. Because actually he was - strangely perplexed... strangely disappointed...

This process... really wasn't it at all...