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Whisphers of a Gogh

Whether these raving utterances reach any sentience, I do not know, but pray listen to my prime spirals and her morbid sadism. Glassed sight in spinning descent- I shall recite from beginning to end, if my mind doesn't first.

As a travelling man wandering streets of Europe, I remember my arrival in Champagne; eagerly skipping dulled cobbles to the decadent apartment, my baggage of squandered finances in tow. Enough barely, for crumbs and the seventh floor of that delapidated place. An onyx sky rises ridding authority from sun or star all covered in smog from industry near and far. Starless night, undecorated by that silver sickle left me raped under carbon shadows.

A brief description, of that seventh floor room. Rotten boards and unclean walls that never tasted a lick of plaster or paint with a still cold air exaggerated by the November elements that drove me to cover under blanket and sleep. It did take me surely on a trip through that downward spiral. Beauty of high mathematic carved from the chaos- the prime spirals in elusive description. Self-similar it was, in fractal elusiveness. An impression for sure carved under mortal coil, an impression to be sure etched in my flesh cliffs.

Damnable as it was, I truly awoke- so I suspect, my chronology is so broke. I pull sheets of papyrus and my fountain pen spills the full description placed on its yellow windowsills; a dutiful elation of artistic corellation to collapse into one that jigsaw for none. As water does flow, and so does it crash, I felt my hunger strike requesting due mass. I went and I walked in spirals and spins to a local café. In these strange words, I cannot recall, precisely where my mind collapsed to a fall.

I predict the incalculable, I didn't visit the café and greet a wonderful woman, all dressed up in fine yellows. We certainly didn't discuss twos or threes, or fives or sevens, over delicious cake created by eleven.

A cake slice to eat, she cut and she sliced, perfectly too as my eyes became cooked rice. A drip and a splash, I drank my good tea, as I began to spill idly, quite mathematically.

A cake slice to eat, she dined and she stabbed, perfectly too as my ears became dead mice. A dizzying sip, I drank my iron brew, as she spoke in words beyond me and you. A queasying grip, grabbed and betrayed, as seconds darted about and my eyes did betray. A dimming café as I awoke in a room.

Dizzying as it was, all I saw was rotten timber. Besides was that paper corpse, soaked in the crimson. The ringing grips, I feel red painting. The spirals of primes, so thoroughly sublime, my fears, my ears! They're no longer mine! Tools to twist, spin and desist, a yellow sign I couldn't resist.

I leave this to you, these stark ravings. All corellation that deserves no saving.

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