In front of its old, grand round mirror, 2 wriggles its long, slim neck, preens the plumes at the end of its tail and gloats. You are 2, it smiles at its reflection; no other can be you.
A few blocks away, 8, also in front of its round mirror, loosens the belt around its waist, and indulges itself in the sight of its perfect, even curves.
Whoever set their eyes on you and think that you are 4+4 or 3+5, are talking nonsense. They have no eyes to see you as an individual, independent, complete being.
At the other end of the City, 1283 contemplates the consequences of being 1283. I am not an ordinary number. I am integer and prime. There is no other number that represents the concept of 1283; I alone express this singular and solitary concept – one that blesses an equally singular and solitary being.
Every night, countless numbers leave such thoughts and words at the feet of their mirrors – offerings to the round god who bears their figures. Then they go to bed, cross their pillows and brood their sphereal dreams: each of them unique, as is their dreamer.
Every night, when all the numbers fall asleep in the Eternal City, One visits each house and gently wipes the round mirrors clean; and they, wrapped in the thick shroud of darkness, lay off the burden of their reflections – for a few hours they become, once again, small, plain noughts…
Unnknown photographer, Colorado lisence plate, 1922