Bach's "little fugue" played while figure eights whistled in my head, along with mathematics to an un-equilibrium point where self-confidence meets self-doubt.
So, in illusions created by the exact same demons that saw the bottom from the top and the pope as part of a conspiracy, I created a theory, and ended in a padded room.
I painted spots on walls not assimilating anyone others works, became my own victim, committed to rationality while acting eccentrically.
Visions came to me, I sought refuge in them, things I saw the real world calls bug-brained.
There I envisioned the cosmos as a limit imposed on one's relation to self. I saw the dynamics of human conflict as interludes of forced sanity.
I went as quick as I came.
forced into what I don't want to do I enjoyed the chorus arranged in my head. Like a game between people I don't understand.
I sneak into Princeton and proved the existence of God. in red sneakers unaware my theory was economic realism.
Then I rejected voices.
And won the Nobel Prize.
A poem about a mad mathematical genius! John Nash! True story.