A vast cavity opened by organs off his ear and throat, tied in appendages he, Art, no one could have known they possessed. By means of which - they had opened a vast cavity in his face: the bleeding ridges down into him, through him -

man sized this cavity that had been opened, was -

It was evidently there. Art's supernatural organs had torn his face open. And yet his chest rose in dreaming rhythm, transmitting from him dreams that contained images/waves in the same rising and falling rhythm as his chest. He continued to breathe; he continued to dream - despite the fact Art[ion] - the Prince of Multicoloured Organs, and Multi-hued lies; the Duke of Wanting; Count Art[ion] of the Thing off his Throat, The Dream Slave's organs had ripped a hole in his own face.

A wet bloody cavity transmitted pure rhythm, meaning, heat, and reality. In him. In there. Whatever he was here for - these were thoughts that Pheel Cazzo did not necessarily wish to have. - Whether or not that was the Black Chest of the Scrolls of the Prophecies of the Queen of Waat; the key for which he still had sticking angles in his pocket - whether or not it was that. That container of prophecies; the thing for which he was here - maybe existed - at least the next thing his being toward-which conferred upon his existence any meaning. That anyway - the quest itself, because this was what it really was. - Whatever he was here for it was inside Art, in his face. Staring into the bloody ridged cavity tunnel, torn into his face by supernatural organs, revealing the man sized cavity-tunnel beneath – not in thoughts, Pheel - it was in,

there.

Art knew he was dreaming; whatever that meant now – that was another title he knew he had – The Hero Dreamt, which just meant the same thing as Dream Slave; whatever it meant when the shared dream the type who lived the fantasies of three civilisations upon his flesh, whatever it meant when that thing, who he was, the truth of which was attested to, by his organs themselves, whatever that meant – he wasn't proud of it, it was a nightmare, his consciousness not his own – whatever it meant - it was whatever it meant when - The Hero Dreamt, had become the Hero Dreaming.

The Door opened and -

There was no alternative but that he was dreaming. And that, of course, this entire place, this entire dungeon, for this was still what he was inside - this entire subterranean region whose boundaries, of course, this was rather obvious - overlapped that of his mind but/not - just –

this entire place was the box of prophecies.

A place he reminded himself was not metaphor - his organs told him that - but that he was literally inside. For he was beginning to suspect that these prophecies, for there were prophecies, were not solely the inventions – true or not – of the febrile fantasises of the Queen of Waat.

Because this was something else.

Art stared at what he was staring at which was unfortunately this:

Seeing no alternative. His mind twisted in the recognition that he was dreaming his own creator - seeing no alternative - a being whom he had met and knew existed - seeing no - Art moved toward what they had done to his living corpse.