“Truth!” Pheel understood that a bright blue flame existed in terms of the nature of reality itself, in that room in Shensh, which formed the dart in his hand that -

Out the corner of his third forehead-eye the Ontological Wound saw in Pheel's mind:

He saw he was lying to himself. He saw Pheel alone in a room, lying to himself.

He saw him pacing, his office, Old Works, alone in there, scheming, telling himself what he did; the lies he told, the reasons for them – it was all unavoidable. He saw himself, telling himself, that – he could find purpose in his life in the accommodations he made; in the ways in which he squeezed whatever truth, and therefore goodness, into stories that – if he could push the thing in the right direction, if he could at least insert a little - if he could remind people that - there were ways to approach this material; if he could offer anyway, a portion, in anyway, an angle upon a mode of seeing -

He saw.

In allegorical terms; even in certain pointed metaphors, an angle anyway, upon some kind of purposeful final reality. It was there. There was something truly miraculous. Something truly – something true. There was something true. The games of perspective. These were inevitable. The ways of interpreting reality - the fake worlds that necessarily one operated in if – necessary. The whole thing would collapse, without. There was already too much.

If one of the fake layers, if – if the truth about any of this, the nature of Theust, what they did there, the weird and incomprehensible reality at the source of Shensh, a world that operated, upon, responded to, and worked itself into narratives by means of – by means of what? Mystery? This was the mystery? If they even admitted that it was real. That definitionally it meant something truly... miraculous, truly – truly terrifying, and beautiful, about what was actually going on in terms of the final reality of existence itself that -

- What was this weirdness in there? And how did he know it was good? How could he go on, not just employing it, that talent he had been given, anything good in himself corrupted for its purposes, how could he – how could he use the best parts of himself, to force something beautiful into the lies required to keep a population entire enslaved, in fakeness, in false realities, in the corruption of anything finally good and real and true and -

Because his life was built on it.

Because he was part of something more important that that.

He was an important person.

He mattered.

And anyway what could he do?

Really? What could he really do?

Anything?

March into his office and yell about the final incorruptible nature of goodness and the waste, the disgusting waste they were making of -

And be replaced?

And be disappeared, more likely.

To die in a pointless gesture that changed nothing and made the real world anyway worse for the billions of... dreamunits.

For the poor fucking slaves he wrote stories for.

He had a duty to them. He had a duty to produce something that made, even momentarily, any of this worth supporting, living through, if he could... entertain them. If he could distract them. That wouldn't be. That couldn't be any great sin. In fact. In fact, anyway, the whole thing was built on that - and it wasn't as if there was anything, actually, finally, true; in terms of how you could really argue these things. Anyway.

Everyone had their own perspective. There was nothing outside that. If you could distract what were objectively slaves from the worst aspects of their admittedly – pacing, telling himself lies, pacing madly, interminably, across his office, his room; his childhood bedroom, his office, a blank space, a geometric chamber - interminably, round and round - unceasingly, walking himself into nothing justifying himself - justifying the fake worlds and the lies he told to slaves – to keep them slaves.

To keep slaves.

It was good. In fact. In fact it might even be holy. What he did. It might even be on a tier of goodness one could ascribe to a certain kind of...

In words. It was sacred.

That he told lies to slaves so that they did not know they were slaves – to keep them slaves. That he reaped the benefits. And that the woman he fucked, was objectively beautiful. While - the Wound watched him copulate with her, over her shoulder, eliciting, by watching him, the tear in his soul, with – the glance he slipped in there.

Just a way of seeing the world. That was all.

That thing wasn't even there.

It's three eyes.

It's three tongues.

Before his face he saw that – he saw those eyes, and the tongues twirling obscenely. He saw in that entity's sex stare, he saw – all at the same time, from that very face, transmitting the insistence/the categorical perspective - in terms of an interpretation - could be - applied to what he definitely saw with his physical eyes, he saw:

he could see that the Ontological Wound wasn't really there.

The material entity who stared love-nothing into him, its penis tongues twirling in that hole it called a mouth –

- That thing licking his face, it wasn't even - that thing that stuck a tongue in both ears and gob; that thing that drooled poison directly in his face orifices; that entity whose breath made him vomit his mouth up, which vomit scooped out, by it, out his face and swallowed behind -

- begin,

it began - in some hole connected to who knew what entity could even begin to contemplate – it wasn't really there working off its trousers, that thing, that thing who joined the coupling with Clua that -

It was anyway his reward.

It was anyway what he worked for.

It was anyway why he was here, pacing in this geometric chamber, over and over; end to end, verbally encouraging himself.

Their objectively unsupportable existences, their miserable lives - these billions of slaves, did anyone else who explicitly understood the genuine nature of their existence, anyone like him, any in this thing, in Old Works, any of us in this total structure that governed every aspect of their lives –

give a dirty fucking care for any of these slaves? Beside him?

Did they even care? Did they even care? He cared.

He cared. Pacing. He cared. Pacing. He cared. He cared/He kept them slaves. Only remaining slaves because he lied to them they weren't -

kept slaves because he told them that the lie was worth - in fact the only good they - kept slaves for the reason he fought to inject as much goodness, as much reality - truth, in there as he dared – kept slaves in proportion to how much he made the whole thing that much more lifelike.

A filthy inside-out cunt-liar and he cared.

He cared.

He cared.

Pacing/Pacing/Pacing.

Pacing.

- Pacing in his cage Pheel cared.

“Truth!” Pheel understood that a bright blue flame existed in terms of the nature of reality itself, in that room in Shensh, which formed the dart in his hand that – met the doom chamber that descended.

Paralysing him in the mantra he was a holy person because he cared -

“Love!” Massimo's axe skimmed -

Out the corner of his third forehead-eye the Ontological Wound saw in Massimo's mind: