Art, if he was that, disintegrated along the lines of his now dissected supernatural organs - if he was who he was, the blank man, the overwritten, the palimpsest - identity scraped off the insides of the vaginal tracts of his creator's brain. - He was sucked clean and faceless inside the slippy chamber of his master's organs. Pulled, liquidlight, and flat inside, becoming weight, becoming merely a flat unidentified weight, detached from himself:

he watched his own consciousness traverse the tactile organ zone of that mysterious interior.

He went on, further in, the sensations played across his consciousness, merely played through him, his brain, his mind, rather, unidentified, untethered, unattached to himself, identityless - shorn of the attributes merely obsessions, themes, merely ideas, merely the archetype-patter of a confused consciousness, pulled out unwilling and hazy, malformed, and unadapted for the space that he was thrust into -

Now -

for the world that operated in relation to him, that was the hero space, that was the final realm. He moved through, his organs no longer there - his supernatural organs flat-unmatched pulled off his face, and slipping through.

Art: a flat identityless weight watched the bizarre manifestation of his living corpse pulled through the massive chambered organ sack of his pathetic master. Merely weight, being merely weight, satisfied him in some strange sense, circling around his own lids, nodding forever inward, sad and unattached, pathetic and energyless - merely a transfer through a biological organ that slipped him in in some sense that repeated, his body nodding inward, along the tube in a biological rhythm connected to -

it didn't matter.

But he slipped. Weight, merely, wet, merely, his organs pulled off his face and separated; pulled through the source that dreamed him.

An effortlessness toward death pulled him inward/further in toward the final eruption that would greet him on the other side – same time - the weight increased through his face.

The weight inside him that he consumed; the suck towards consuming that transported through. Consumed and consuming, the rapid rhythm of that exchange, merely increased with the weight of wet death forcing the hole in his face; explicit now, this exchange, a forced explanation of the separation of organs.

He felt that rhythm and jungle; that material and mass, pile, and pile, inside the weighted chamber-tube he was passed through. His consciousness, itself untethered to organs - he wasn't himself; merely organs, he wasn't that palimpsest, the clear thing - he was the clear thing now as it necessarily detached him from the organs that brought him through - ripping over and -

he felt his heart out that mass, and he was old - and he was so, so, so, old, and he saw it -

he saw the mass of memory and time. Separated out that had formed him. Concepts clear and shaped. Final reality. No longer sucked, no longer in organs; he saw the clear shapes of a separation out of that which he had been induced into.

A new language in thought and time. A new language printed in flesh.

: a brew of reality and space.

He saw untangled rhythms canted across consciousness.

What was it?

Where?

He was still -

What was this space.

Ripped across the channelled hues of his own organs that -

A mass of words, shapes, rhythms, concepts that formed indescribable realities before him; pure idea space, pure life – here. Opened. - Opened up to him because he no longer existed. - No bodily sensation just vision. He saw. Complete passion and absence, a flash of incomprehensible recognition,

the idea.

The idea.

The final thing he had to know.

It, finally, it.

Then he fell.

his body hit the flat surface of the river of blood, and then was submerged in it.