On an afternoon in my sophomore year, Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune played through my headphones. Just before falling asleep, I found myself wondering whether it was possible for someone to be strangled by their headphone cord in a dream. Before I could reach a conclusion, I slipped into sleep. When I woke, the 11-minute-and-11-second piece hadn’t yet ended. My body was drenched in sweat, the hair at the nape of my neck clung to my skin, and my face was flushed. I couldn’t remember the dream itself—only the sensation of drinking a bubbling purple potion. In the misty dreamscape, the fluttering wings of little sprites made a crisp sound, like wind passing through wind chimes. They were as fragile as a lie—perhaps they truly were one. Back then, I knew nothing of Pan. I had no idea what he looked like or what he represented. My dream was shrouded in mist; I couldn’t see his face. But I wrote the dream down. Four years later, I dreamed of Pan again. This time, in the dream, I saw a man dressed in a white shirt. He blew out the candle in his hands, and the moment the flame died, I fell into a thick fog. I stood beside a massive tree, listening to the sound of footsteps, feeling the earth tremble beneath me. Then, I saw him—a half-beast with enormous ram’s horns, walking toward me. I knew it was Pan. And his face was the same as the man in the white shirt, the one who had held the candle at the beginning. I told him I wanted to find my way out of the mist.