C o l o u r s

T h e F i b o n a c c i E x c u s e

34 t h N u m b e r , M a t h e m a t i c s , V a r i a b l e s a n d C o e f f i c i e n t s

"I am an excuse to measure your worthless life. I help you think, therefore I am. I map your life, and I realize how futile it is to help something that was written to perish. The solution of your equation is no where to be found..."

- The Numbers That Tried To Save You

And so, they meet again.

This time, it was inside a dirty, dingy pub, music blaring from the loudspeakers, sweaty dancing bodies, dark lights all over the place, a chaotic world, filthy people with their filthy problems and filthy drinks.

She was drinking vodka, shooting it down her throat, the liquid burning it's way inside, bringing tears to her eyes.

He was sitting in the corner, arms folded, watching everybody with a small smile dancing on his lips. A vibrant world he lived in, a jolly vibrant one.

But vibrancy and clemency and honesty and destiny; they didn't make sense to him.

It was like math. When you had to take things and break them apart to understand them, and stitch them back up again so that someone else could break them apart. All over again.

A futile way to live.

A colossal joke. His survival. A Fibonacci excuse. A wrong mathematical probability.

He hated math. And he hated the way she loved math. She breathed in all those numbers and signs and equations and formulas and problems, and he couldn't understand what was so appealing about something that taught you to tear up the world so that you could analyze it in a million different ways. It messed with his head; thinking of the variety of ways he could do things.