I grew up in a mathematic household.

In our house, everything can represent by number and statistics.

We worship the God of Numbers while others worship Jesus and Allah.

Numbers tell us everything we need to know,

Look around.

Nature is a neat piece of mathwork.

Even human is proportionate to a ratio.

I don't know if Jesus is real, but I know for sure there must be a God somewhere high above who spends his life ripping apart scrap papers and black chalkboard, trying to piece together a few zillion variables into a simplified expression.

I grew up trying to express life with an equation,

I grew up looking for variables, dependent and independent factors,

I grew up putting things in brackets or under square root.

My parents died studying and learning about the depth of human's heart. I grew up examining their messy scrawls and theories plaster on blue paper, scatter in the cold bedroom.

What strike me as lunatic is that what their twenty-year research paper contains:
The infinity symbol.

Repeat over and over and over again.

Black ink cutting through smooth, thick blue paper, deeper and blacker everytime I touch it, spiralling, a path that never ends.

Infinity. Infinity. Infinity. Infinity. Infinity. Infinity.