pan, pan is dead.

Lovely world, where art thou? Turn, oh, turn thee,
Fairest blossom-tide of Nature's spring!
Only in the poet's realm of wonder
Liv'st thou, still, - a fable vanishing.
Reft of life the meadows lie deserted;
Ne'er a godhead can my fancy see:
Ah, if only of those living colors
Lingered yet the ghost with me!

Friedrich von Schiller (1759-1805)

We are little better than clairvoyant
puppets at times petulant...
a cryptic convergence of
anatomy and anxiety;
shadows of a departing
divinity in a theater
of incidental gesture.

april is the cruelest month