Wound I against the forces of nature this tap through which a steam of nature's brewed drink, measured hot as I desired. It loved my skin, steaming upwards, its ambiental tentacles towards my chin.
The devil besought my thoughts to torment. The sounds of men calling my name, lynching my conscience undeservedly; the scapegoat of the moment. These gates were open; the devil smeared in through the tap, flowing through brews.
I wound fast against those that call. Thence did they stop: the lynching, the calling, beseeching, praying my falling. I fled my bathtub, escaping the mob, escaping the devil in my bathtub.