Somewhere, Dyssia can hear screaming.

The music continues, you understand? Pulsing, pumping, throbbing, beating. And she continues the dance, hands flying across the keyboard. They keys are slippery, she notes. Red. Unpleasantly tacky.

It's not Aphrodite, for sure, because he's here, did you know that? 

You can't have desires like this, she realizes. No plans, no rules, no wants. Nothing but the infinite yawning void of the typewriter and what we'll put in it next.

Information. Curiosity. Her first, her greatest loves, since the days of leaning over a barrel and hearing about Out There.

Why [i]is[/i] she so distracted? So distracted she can't even focus on who she is? She couldn't stop if she wanted to. What is want? Who is Dyssia? The tempo pulls her along, blood dripping in her wake.

She should--needs?--wants! Wants to do literally anything else.

Dionysus smiles, and runs a finger along her neck. The tempo changes, the hooks dig in, and her body follows. 

The keyboard is hungry.