Oh Dionysus. How I miss you, but your blood....gives me anxiety. It makes people hate me, I can't stand to be alone.
I can't say I don't miss dancing with you But it's not much of a party with just the two of us. No one else is willing to dance for long.
There was a time where you were, my only friend and you would smile and take me in your arms while I sobbed and enjoyed the haze of your being. I in turn, worshipped you. Even if research, candles and hymns, libations of your own blood and my perfume could hardly be enough.
It's all I have, my lord.
While I miss the roiling, twisting madness of your magnificence I shouldn't be there. I want to be, desperately but I pick up a bottle and look at myself in disgust and shame. It's not you, it's me. This is far from a disillusionment of gods. I will still dance, my lord, just perhaps not as closely as before.