Nietzsche confirmed the coroner's call over a century ago. In the marketplace we dance with joy and laugh at the madman and his crazed cries. Drowned out by the sound of our self-congratulation, his final line is lost on us - that we do not recognize what we have done. 

A vacuum is left in the wake of this most monumental of murders. With blood-soaked steps we seize the scepter and ascend the throne. We erect statues and hold endless celebrations to commemorate our triumph. The shackles of superstition have been cast off and we bite wholeheartedly into the golden apple of our godhood.

But the dead do not rest and the slain threatens to once again roll away the stone. We prepare our weapons of war, but with every victory he appears like an apparition in another place. He is a stream we are trying to contain with our fingers, but our hands only grow ever more red. Violence and vitriol rise alongside paranoia and insanity, the whole land stained with the debris of battle. The deed is done; how can this be!

The madman had the most foresight of all but he was still deceived. In the midst of our repainting of the horizon, the earth cracked and our throne fell into the chasm. As our infinite nothing, which looked so bright, slipped through our desperate grasp, we looked up and saw our work undone, the mythical lion standing on the grass.