Pheel Cazzo found himself in a subterranean trapezoid corridor, whose floor was mist. Colours: turquoise, orange, red exchanging prominence and importance, beneath the, in some sense incomprehensible to him, exterior of - in terms not just of his emotional register - the indefinable presence of a consciousness that had to be by definition demonic.

He moved forward, as if he had his own supernatural organs that told him this was the only thing he could do; absent from Art, trying to understand being itself in relationship to the increase of this demon, perhaps already inside him. He thought it was already inside him. It was already inside him.

Separating it from himself, was how he would defeat this corridor.

This was a thought he prayed came solely from him; not the demon: this was his problem, because he didn't know if it was inevitable or only likely that by fighting this thing internally he would irretrievably eradicate essential portions of himself.

The physical space mattered, the reality of it, his moving further into it, feeling the increase in the demon as he did.

Art entered it. The walls were organs, hanging off each other. Various species of intestine hung from the ceiling, ropes he had to pass between/tossing them aside, smacking him back in the coupon bloody and wet. He'd been disgusted before; had plunged even into eldritch realms of whatever, masses of shit etc., had fought demons of every variety - at least he had the memories that related these experiences. Perhaps only translated to fit his current existence, if you could call it that:

But this useless discourse upon the nature of memory he'd rather not contemplate at the minute because he feared this too was a weapon against him. It was an effort at ripping out whatever remained that he could connect himself to. He went on. Cocks, and bizarre arrangements of spleens, kidney wallpaper, all too three dimensional.

Art passed into a room the walls of which were livers, pulsing deep red, beckoning him towards he knew not what new arrangement of thoughts inside himself. Another tunnel, more hanging intestines; he went further in and down, caked in the shit and the blood that alternately was squirted at him by the various sphincter hooks appointed variously that, his activating something, shat, mainly blood he thought, all over him.

What was this? The sick - body dream of a demon?

Who even was -

There was a door all faces, at the end of the corridor.