Waves of nothing-love.

Waves of death and decease and decrease – they were out of those entities in the waves they communicated with. In

Only -

flavours of hatred and envy;

projecting immediately from their faces hard tiers of spite, in the words, in the rhythms, in the vacuum that they were connected to –

his perspective seized and flung across the face; faces, corridors, minds, the void, the vacuum, everything that –

beneath an incantation – this was ceremony. He was the centre of a deranged rite; the profound religious expression of their despising him: the sacrifice that would make their nothing-love holy; refined and final, and final. And final. And unassailable.

– Final!

He would go through the indigo cloud and he would be – whatever he was – it would finally be final.

He would be sacrificed; whatever he was.

It was in there and it would no longer –

He wouldn't exist and that would be –

But he heard it –

Final –

He heard what was growing out of the shrieks and the eddies in that mist, and the emptiness inside them.

he could hear it in –

their incantations, their garbled-cacophonous, contradictory shrieking, and singing, intoning, and barking; in their shrieking insane laughter and the cries of complete decease and emptiness; their contradictory cacophonous chants, in the mad religious tiers that together formed their incomprehensible incantations – the space itself – in these finally; finally and it rose up from nothing to became the only thing he was capable of hearing and – that – chanting, intoning, incanting, it –

was an incantation. And they were all

doing it, flashing across the separate weird images of their faces, their rites and the names –

The names that were his names.

And it was his name.

They were chanting his name.

For he would be eaten.

He would ne scarified.

He would be deceived.

And –

fucked

He would be adored.

– This was the final word; the culmination of their hymn and their rite, and it was his name; he knew right away – it was his true name that they were singing.

Dream Slave.

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave.”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

He was the dream slave –

that was him.

Mad screeching; chanting/screeching; he was the Dream Slave and what it meant – he was the bottom of the rite that they had been building towards; the culmination of those mad chants, the culmination of a rite that went back before his birth. Back millennia in spite; in insanity, and madness. Surging toward a past out of which these dreams were sourced; his sacrifice, in the tunnel – in this chamber and corridor and dream, it was for – he had been induced here for this final ceremony that –

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

“Dream Slave!”

And it would send him through that mist flung around the images of itself at the end of the hall. A millennia old incantation and rite that in these febrile charges was reaching a final culmination the moment he –

“Dream Slave!”

The mist.

In the/that – always had been – moment that loving mist reached out for him in currents of weird indigo; and that – that moment it coalesced into – that thing they had been reaching for in mad and once comprehensible chanting;

deformed and degraded into mere grunting, now, and whining. – Millennia of subconscious toil now fulfilled in this final sacrifice that would see him plunge through the wind and the mist and the –

Go in.