As obsessed as max over 216 digits I follow that spiraling yellow brick road to a sunflower plant. Interestingly even the family tree of honeybees that pollinated these buzzed along the same path. Sound math painted the path of the great wave that makes reflections in water. The same reflections are seen in the pinecone and in the fruit sprouts of the pineapple. Over the horizon radar also directly follows the formula of this fruit but in listing only. Being lonely and obsessed, I recess to reading alone 289 times before the sacrament of the last supper. All summer these seeds formulaically flower revealing how aesthetics can be golden powered. Showered in numbers I count the drops, I get to 112358132134, but the rain never stops. Bartók’s sonata for two pianos and percussion patters to the rhythm. I listen closer, I’m driven. Seeing 1.618 is how it was written. To who do I owe for these divine proportions? Obsessed to the max, I’m dying, crying, infected, it’s viral. C is to b as, as I disappear into the infinite exterior of this spiral.