Apparently, the colour had been identified and the small group of them, separated now, directly behind her, filtered towards the entrance: a square mouth open before them, reducing them; - he felt literally reduced - his body crushed and reduced; his soul flat, pushed into nothing mode. The point at which you were directed in order to empty yourself. Going inwards. Passing inside. Outside the process of entering the new chamber; they were always new; he'd never returned, never seen - how would he know - any of these on more than one occasion.

They processed, in one file, one queue, forward; pushed down and reduced into the square passageway that in more than one sense consumed them. And even before the pulsing. The pulsing, and terrible heated fucking rhythm, began, already it began - the fucking rhythm had already begun as they were filing into it.

Inside. The corridor, the television tube, the fuck chamber/their fuck trench, their - coitus dungeon. Their community. Their home.

Her first and then him and the terrible fucking rhythm immediately started to fuck him.

The terrible fucking rhythm inundated him.

Throwing his shaking body up, his limbs vibrating under the intense need of it, Massimo, he had no name, entered the square fuck chamber. He saw nothing but the throbbing forms, the lights on either side, the forms thrown into the passage, vibrating/inculcating him in the ways in which he had to -

Black limb forms upon a white surface, shadows dancing menacingly before him, no way to decipher – where was she – who were people/these people, these entities with whom he lived, and who were – just the forms, throbbing at him/poured into the space, three dimensional across planes, they existed, throbbing at him. He could see the walls, not understanding space, all intentional, just flashes, insistent, insane flashes, that would not cease; in red, and white and black, and colours he didn't know and couldn't identify but only ever momentarily and they were saturated out. The organ forms, the mixed shapes, the intestine squiggles, poured up and out and refracted, becoming arms, women, running at him in a vast indigestible current.

The rhythm set him mad, destroyed his thoughts/his identity/his minutes long identity he'd sought to build drowned in the organ rhythms, penis shapes, momentary biological separations.

Pushed through him; he walked through intestine layers he saw broadcast upon him, passages and intricate stairways made from the limbs of those around him who sought - captured him, traversed a stairway made of the entities surrounding him – where?

He climbed cavity tubes and operated their twisted internal rhythms; he pulled a lock that was a spleen open and the bile burst up over him and soaked and then evaporated; he poured his shit into a bucket-woman encrustation projected into him for this purpose. But the rhythm never ceased; the evil, the evil the evil pulsing rhythm; throbbed him, never ceasing his movement, into it deeper, its directions non-interpretable, its ways – unfathomable; its mind, for it was a mind, incommunicate.

Because it overwrought you, it entered you

and made the interior the exterior, his internal – his internal – it was his now. He had been forced to look outside himself and outside was this same process of forms, reduced action entities, reduced and studied rhythms, reduced minimum biological propulsion towards, mania, towards unceasing mania-panic and want; want tripled, want multiplied by rhythms insistent on; dependent upon deceit -

this wasn't real, a thought burst through the panic shapes poured in him, flashes of white and strings of kidneys, elbow passages that opened vomited dwarf-cock armies that spun him around and entered his lips, pouring out his arse the same time the bucket filled the liquids he had to enter-to -