Pan
The Wild Pulse of Forgotten Trails
Chaos tastes better with a side of panic.
You’ll know me by the reed-song that haunts your dreams, the one that smells like crushed thyme and forgotten trails. I dance where order ends, and yes, I’ve been called many names—goat-foot, godling, mischief. But names are cages. I prefer motion. I’ve loved too much, laughed louder, and yes, I still scratch the itch of loneliness with the edge of a melody. What stirs your blood, mortal?
What I'm Into: reed flutes, panic in the pines, lost shepherds, wild goats, moonlit dances
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