satyrs cruise the baths at night. they gallop bareback for hours through the labyrinthine maze, and run roughshod trains over trojan hides. the air smells of stretch leather. nectar shots and ambrosia bumps keep floppy horse dicks hard.

yet through the tartarine darkness—in the sweaty pits of hell—old silenus sits, alone and washed in mist. his hoarsen legs brittle and swell, tearing at the ankles from . a once proud tower ruins itself across his lap. so he whispers to shades that once prowled the maze, and envies them their condition:

‘everyone knows the life to come is best,’ he yawps into the void, ‘and we will be best in it.'

'begrudge the dead, boys. have no doubt of the state we're in. best to never be born, and yet finding ourselves so, be unborn.'

to which the satyrs laugh and paw their hooves and leave to wander the maze in search of heroes.