He liked discussing causes of insanity.

Emperor's plates, ergot, or just pre-existing sensitivity.

I felt a little touched in the head every once and a while with him.

Smoking cloves, painting abstracts, listening to Verdi; sometimes these could inspire random statements.

"I want to drip the oils mathematically, to be as perfect as Pollock," I'd say.

He'd shake his head and I'd go briefly mute, pursing my lips. Would I really want the gift of such a painter?

Look how much they lose in return.

Then, in the midst of the voracious sex we were having on a hotel floor one night, I saw fractals in his bicep and Newtonian Method on his cock.

But this was a different art.

"Let's move in front of the window," I'd suggest.

Thirty floors up, the massive floor to ceiling window revealed a brightly lit city;

I imagined this view of so many twinkling buildings felt like a bequeathed kingdom to anyone staying on the same floor.

All heat and burning filaments in an expanse just for you.

I pressed my hands to the glass as he entered me from behind.

I saw no number sequences here. No spirals or square roots.

I felt, however, the laws of motion against my skin, the force of him blotting out my mathematical mind.

His breath on my neck felt like a smooth hot stone, divinely rubbing my nape.

We could do this, fit together like this in the craziest way, our shapes moving into one another flawlessly.

Almost as precise as Euclid.

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