The mad boy who fancies himself a god dances in ecstasy in the woods, the ground running red with wine and blood; the night ringing with laughter and screams and the mad, mad lust of his women. The edges of the city is beginning to run red with the force of his joy, something primal in the hearts of its women, the shallow white civilization bleeding away into the natural state of man.
In the city, girls paint their lips red and stain their cheeks, and there is a strange holy shine in their eyes. No man knows of the god’s magnificence or the strange biting mystery of his kiss, or of the way he stares you in the eye and extends a hand, the way your fingers stain red when you take it.
Only women are bound tight enough to let go. Only women are sane enough for this madness.
Dionysus, the boy god cloaking himself in his own divinity, extends a red, red hand to the women of the city; and without a word, they take it.