Sometimes life can be reduced to mere numbers. It is so simple that we look back to see all our life experiences and we are able to write them down in a piece of paper as mathematical equation and yet we will never find the meaning of them.

He enters one last time into his parlor, where his old typewriter awaits him at the end of the hall. He takes his time and gently drinks a glass of whisky. As he walks through the obscure room, he stops at a particular picture hanging from the wall. The eyes of a child are looking straight at him, mocking his pathetic existence.

He finally reaches the table that holds his old-time machine. He tries to light up a cigarette, but his conscience refuses to obey. So he puts down his cigarettes and begins writing. The only words that come to his mind are: 'Number of times...' trying to remember all his life experiences though a certain sum of numbers. But as he gets closer and closer to the end of the list, his mind starts recalling his most sad and terrible memories.

He stops writing, hoping that these thoughts will go away. But he cannot fight his unconsciousness that still remembers. Now, he realizes that all along this empirical list is the last one he will ever write in his miserable life.