Admire here the sharp hipbones of Klimt’s three starved Gorgons, shriveled snakes curling from white foreheads, bellies caved in. The daughter Gorgons can lead you to where you want to go. When down the dust-road you venture and there silence between aspen leaves troubles you (no wind’s breath to rattle them) you will note instead heartbeat and breath heard rattling in your skull.

      Thereupon you may begin to speak aloud a Genesis narrative, tales of the births and deaths of great men and women, but dancing between thin silver-barked trunks they the Gorgons will be there to laugh at you. At the reverb of their terrible laughter your story arc will collapse.

      When come by sweet cold dopamine springs at the wayside you will dip your cup and partake until drunk. You will not look up. You never sat under the Bodhi tree, and by such negligence, bread and distraction have become your flesh inheritance, you will dare not lech for more. You hear them coming.

      Disease, Madness and Death: thus they the Gorgons are named. When you reach the end of the debauched road, they will be there, shifty eyes rolling, dark waves of hair tossing, hissing; once caught by their consumptive gaze you will never look down. Their sinewy arms await you; in their serpentine embrace you are become void, at last free of your gnawing hunger. Void, where you want to go.