Benjamin Fraser speaks from the grave, remembering the spirits—perhaps muses, lovers, or models—that once surrounded him. He felt them as vividly as butterfly wings, their presence so intense he could sense their downcast eyes and the fall of their clothing even with his own eyes shut. Their detached, starry gaze watched his ecstasy and pain; they fed on his passion while he in turn fed on their vitality. He compares taking their lives for his own art or desire to a child crushing grapes and drinking the juice.
They cried out for life, but he took it for himself. Now he is left in a colorless, silent emptiness: no red, gold, wine, or rhythm. The mood shifts from feverish, almost trancelike intensity to a hollow, exhausted aftermath. It feels like a confession of creative or emotional hunger that finally starves him.