The supernatural organ, fashioning its own connection as it did so, stopped the cosmos in its opening. Completely visible and hairless, the passageway, in gradations, was fashioned, pulling out – the world turned around her profound sensuality. And he didn't know how, but beauty connected to goodness, an expression of it, the revelation of it, this had been revealed to be a lie in that baseness. Baseness that – was never concealed for an instant beneath those tossing waves of organ slides and insane colours that pulsed, ran now, the silenced world reactivated, forced more madly than ever through his consciousness. Standing, silently, as if upon the first space rendered out of thought into existence - evincing a kind of shocking baseness; an evil entirely visible pouring through her/out of her, out of that body that tugged his soul toward her in want.

Beneath those upturned breasts swollen with life: the supernatural organ, with its crinkled lips. Those lips parted and they had been parting, and the thing pulling, the thing whose presence he'd – he'd interpreted it out, he could only dream what it was, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, that thing, it was in there, and it pulled.

It was the source, it was the final - thing, the source of it, of that, that maliciousness - that baseness in rebirthed ancient flesh, that thing.

It passed her lips, the thing itself the same as that black passage behind, that thing – it's umbilical cords like tentacles, began the methodical, conscious, discreet process of – like an old man panic-shitting not to shit his own organs – of defecating himself alive! through that supernatural cunt.

The left lip thrust open split by an umbilical-tentacle; ripping his mothers genitals up the side; bleeding now in shocking quantities, only eliciting the nihilistic laughter of void-love off her now twisted visage. The torn genital flap tore her abdomen up and she laughed, laughed madly, laughed insanely. From nowhere a blade appeared in her left hand, she'd always; maybe she'd always had –

She cleaved a slice off her arm, seeking in some base fashion connected to it all to mirror intentionally elsewhere, to repeat the wounds, to choose them: she chose them

- he could see all this, feel the meaning transposed/transported through the mad pulsing insane organ flesh river that his mind focused out of: he could only see her hacking slices out her own arm, to mirror, to choose, to consciously repeat-repeat-repeat herself in her own fashion, that which her – that which this Wound in reality had already torn off her in the intentionally scatological process of its own birth.

Hacking at her arm, the umbilical-tentacle circling her neck, she licked the slick shit off it too, licked it, the same time stabbing directly into her left breast, howling in pain, and laughter, and wilful personal self-destruction that was rendered holy!

He could see this/everything because he was glanced out her. And he understood too that which he was desperate not to know -

that which:

- was rendered holy by the presence of this Wound

This entity, it - threw open another hole in her abdomen, tearing open the right lip of the rippled flesh of her top cunt -

Sanguine spurted madly from the tap of her left breast – milk - those upturned breasts that

– the home he'd -

- sought -

Spurting themselves out, the life they were swollen with, the life retreating, everything – everything – retreating, as she hacked herself, as she hacked at her own flesh, as she hacked at the beauty that -

Ugliness born in the rotting flesh of the mind that poured out her. Rotting the parts it touched, warping them, making her strange, unreasoned, making her presence contingent on his: a warped relation out of a Wound in reality. He was that Wound. And -

Massimo watched the Wound in Being, being born.