Last night I dreamed a well-known
poet had passed away, and "a cry
went through late antiquity:

'Great Pan is dead!' nature had been
deprived of its creative force."

I was talking to his mother, who said:
"An auction will be held soon for my
son's stuff."
"Like what?" I asked, thinking books.
"His pots and pans."
"They're not worth much," I laughed.
"He cooked on an open fire."