#95 – Pan

Why live in fear of Chaos?

I am the very stuff out of which you are fashioned.  I am truer than Order. I am your destiny.

You bastard creatures that cling to dry land as insects to cover of darkness, Order does not hide you from my sight. Order is only a waystation that now serves and now dies, but I am always there, that to which you are each time returning, that from which you borrow your existence.

Often men glimpse death, skance-eyed by a leading periphery of vision, and are sure it is me that they have seen on the window of their eye, but that is a mistake. Still, because they think it me they saw, people relate with death as an unctuous servant to Master, living always in Master’s shadow. In dreadful cognizance of Its power they cleave like sycophants to Its favour in soundless hopes of absolution. In such a way, many lives are an endless death, because their trajectories never err from the Hole’s great orbit. They never turn and stare, and eat death, but instead are constantly being eaten.


If you turn to look and see that peering through the holes is me.

The two deep-set caverns in a human skull…there nested, half-hid in pitchy reaches, my face.

ME wild Bacchus! ME wild PAN!

ME the protean! ME the trickster! ME the wink of creation! ME the soil, ME the sea! ME the Kali-tongued ecstasy!

Wild wild wild wild: I am the mad music that inflames and incites to flight – onto Godhead!