The death of one god is the death of all. - Wallace Stevens

That strange flower, the sun, Is just what you say. Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad..

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

Out of a thing believed, a thing affirmed: The form on the pillow humming while one sleeps, The aureole above the humming house... It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.