This closet strikes you with its smell. The people of the pyramid must have used this place for procreation. Or recreation. Not that it did them much good, since they're all gone now.
Written all over the walls, in an ink whose colour you'd rather not place, is a story of obsession and betrayal, just the same as in every other room. This is the tomb of such subject matter, it seems.. The details are often different, but the patterns are unmistakable.
This particular story of obsession and betrayal dates itself as about the fourth epoch under the Viceking's rule (or has the Viceking already died even then?): Orgies unheard of in the streets, public displays of affection, private affairs with feared eyes, driving the insane sane and then again insane, ripping rights from the wronged ones left and right, consensual and privately without consent, or was that one only fiction? Were they all fictional? Unreal? Unspoken? Obscene, or only unseen because undone? Untrue? Copulation in Copenhagen and the rest of them agrog with Gods and Magods, struck by the notion that the underlying ocean paradise existed in the word alone.
Or could it be that the ravishing lady is another myth, sealed with a kiss, indulging no one but the wicked as they just defy all reason in the treason of others? She's a muse until you lose control. Then she's a burden and your mind wins the Olympic gymnastics event, furthering your pride, your prize all over the walls, splattering your coffin as you're buried alive in all you contrive.
You rend your end, the end.
