"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
- James Joyce, The Dead
I asked the doorman if he knew that the apartment number was the first four digits of the Fibonacci Sequence. He nodded, and politely asked me who Fibonacci was. I told him I didn't know him personally, that he was an ancient mathematician, long dead now. He asked me why I cared about his sequence if I didn't know who he was. Then he left my boxes by the door.
It's funny to see all my possessions contained in four cardboard boxes. All my notes and equipment. There's my life, encased in mashed up trees. No furniture though. Maybe I can get some at a yard sale.
The apartment is cramped, but it's good enough. After all, this is only temporary. I'm not sure if the heater is working: I tried a few knobs and nothing happened, but they might have been the wrong ones. I was planning on keeping it pretty cold anyway.
I'm writing this blog post from the local library, since another missing amenity in the apartment is internet access. Marie and Emilie, I told your mother to give you my blog address. If she did, and you're reading this just leave a post to let me know you are there. I miss you both already. Also, you can let your mother know that I'm settling in just fine, and while it may not have all the comforts of home, the apartment does have one useful feature. There are no distractions.
