No? Then you may tell yourself that this is the wine of the gods in the truest sense, produced by Dionysus himself in a fit of generosity and concern for we wine-starved denizens of the living, breathing world. Let it never be said that the gods have no mercy, however mad they may be!

This place, though... [He finishes his glass, pours another.] Lofty indeed, and perhaps and object for infinite speculation. Ever-changing, its inhabitants an inexplicable assortment, its boundaries porous, you might say unstable (I, at any rate, would say as much). Where I came from, I may have slipped out of life; who can say? And who can say what constitutes death if we carry on as such?

Still, that is no certain answer, for suspicions of my own suggest that it isn't so simple a matter as dying and appearing in this place. Where and when, for instance, have you wandered from?