Poor Pentheus wondered into the ambulant harem of Bacchic priestesses. And they tore him to pieces, with febrile rapidity his being dissolved in the voracious oscillations of pulling hands.
Of sudden I have seen flash before my eyes my own demise. I succumb all too quickly to the intense and unrelenting blows of a dagger. And the bleeding edifice, moribund and gasping for air, tumbles and rolls in the wet sands.
I awaken in screams, seering pain coursing through my body as autumnal waters dappled with salt poured into my wounds.
Perhaps the end of the long and coherent posts is over and in their stead, a melody of short and cryptic tessellations of sagacious oracles.