dripdrip-drip-drip--drip---drip-----drip

Maddeningly irregularly, water dripped from the faucet down the hall. Every drop was the same, and yet there was no discernible rhythm to the sound they made as they were crushed against the steel sink.

I was rocking back and forth in my chair, oscillating, vacillating. I puffed my cigarette. I looked at the sky. The ceiling, I mean. Blank. My mouth was blowing smoke. No sound; it was shooting blanks. Oh, ha, word-play. Hello! My thoughts carried on like this for a while. Hours, or minutes. I don’t have a watch, so I shouldn’t tell with any sense of precision.

Then I heard real shots coming from outside. The police were shooting. Or maybe it was gangs. I perceived the shots very vaguely: I couldn’t interpret what they meant. What I meant is, I had taken so many shots that I don’t know whether the shot-sounds coming from outside my apartment were indications of the law making itself concrete, or the opposite. I was also quite high.

I thought to myself: ah, yes, gunshots, that would be a good thing to write about. Then, I thought: she took the keys to my car when she left, which means that I can’t get into my car. I should step out into the street and let the shots run through me.

It isn’t quite accurate to say that I “had” these thoughts. It would be a bit like saying that I "had"…I can’t think of a metaphor to help make it clear. The thoughts entered my head violently. My head hurts. That should be enough to give you a clear enough picture, I suppose.

Yes, I should give something by way of an introduction. For the reader, or for Style. For example, I should say who I am, and why I think I am writing.

Well. I am a man, 45, 6, and I am named, eh, I am named… Yes. I didn’t finish that sentence. Arbitrarily. I don’t feel any need to give myself a name, or rather, to give my name away, to you. Quite ridiculous to address the reader in this fashion, I agree, but… It doesn’t help anyone to do such a thing, it only can hurt. To name a thing is to do it violence.

My thoughts are quite clear by now, I think that the alcohol has worn off. A bit too clear, even.

What I have written, what can I call it? Off I go again, naming things. Clearly, it is a record of events. Or maybe, that is only what it represents, to me, and to a more artful reader it could mean something quite beautiful. Ah, I wish I could say something definite. Definite and concrete, as concrete as Law, or as shots.

Here we go again. Let me answer the second question I posed for myself, as best as I can, en passant. Why do I think I am writing? Well. The way that this question is posed really gives one pause for thought. But not good thoughts. I am ready to take a revolver and repeatedly…eh, no, it’s no good. She is going to read it when she comes by again, and it is no use making my life more difficult by mentioning anything violent, or suicidal. Even the word “suicide.” Quite unwise to name such a thing at a time like this. And yet.

Ah, yes. Yes. Yes Yes. Yes Yes Yes. Yes, yes. When I was very young, I learned about a very special sequence of numbers, named after, eh, yes. I will make an exception this time. It was named after Fibonacci. It is known as the Fibonacci sequence. They say it is often found in nature. A sequence, not a series. The terms are not summed. Well. I am a bit of a block-head, and I find it difficult to think, apparently. In fact, I refuse to think, often. It is just that writing forces one’s thoughts out in a particularly devious manner, and I write, to keep records of sequences, of events, to be sure of things, quite often. And so I sometimes, not often, although I couldn’t say what I am using this term “often” relative to, exactly, find myself thinking. And thoughts lead to questions, sometimes. Improperly formulated, often. As a child, I had asked my math teacher: if the Fibonacci sequence is often found in nature, then would you mind showing it to us? I admit, this question was asked with ill will lurking in the foreground. And my teacher told me to fuck off. I apologize. I am intruding on my thoughts once again. My teacher said nothing of the sort, she was a very well mannered and infectiously intelligent lady. What I mean to say is, or rather… no. What truly happened was… yes, that is the proper way of beginning. What truly happened was that she replied to my question by smiling and saying: “Of course x! (I am putting a variable in place of my name, as if there is a significant difference, which perhaps there is.) If you look on page 43 of your textbook, there is a very nice image of an artichoke which concretely illustrates the mathematical concept we have been discussing thus far.” I doubt she said it in those words. But in any case. The point I am trying to make is that I am so dim-witted, block-headed, muddled-up, and stupid, that I cannot properly distinguish whether my teacher’s response indicates that she understood my question and misunderstood my intention, that she understood my question and purposely presented herself as having misunderstood my intention to take the opportunity to make a display of kindness and grace (the intentions behind this decision unfortunately remaining opaque), that she misunderstood my question and intuited my intention, that she misunderstood my intention and made use of the faculty of imagination as opposed to intuition to ascertain my intention, a misapplication which resulted in a failure to suss out my intention, or that she answered my question incorrectly, purposely or by accident or by chance or...and the alternative interpretations to choose between proliferate ad infinitum so I will arbitrarily end the series here. And if you want to see how clever I can be, and how little I think, just append the following clever addition to the end of the previous sentence-fragment: “… I will arbitrarily end the series here, just as nature regularly does with the Fibonacci sequence.” Check your work, and make sure you have summed the terms correctly.

So now you see, I hope, at least, the inspiration for my writing. It comes from the faucet. And what a “lightbulb moment,” as they say, that must be for you as a reader. Ah. To hear such an obscure truth obscenely stripped and made nakedly explicit, on paper, and in words, although perhaps the latter two nouns are completely incommensurable. It is a good thing that words are weak, and never speak to the man, but only in vague, insulting universals, which are nevertheless clearly addressed to the man, as is revealed precisely by the ill-intentioned absence of any mention of him.