I'm looking at the wax paper-like part of a postage stamp roll from which you peel the stamps. It's in a loose ring, and there are folds that crisscross it.

If I were an artist, like, say, Richard Serra, it could be the inspiration for some enormous freestanding sculpture that people can walk around or through. This scrap of paper would be an artifact. Archivists would keep it in a climate-controlled box, and when they laid it on a table, they'd use a set of tweezers to position it, just so, being careful not to place it upside down. To aid them in avoiding such a thing, I'd take to writing “THIS SIDE UP” on these miniature models for enormous sculptures.

This one would simply be called “9,” because, you know, it's possible to shape it into a 9.

A controversy would develop over some people claiming that deep down, with my neurospicy affinity for wearing two black socks, black pants, black underwear, a black t-shirt, and sweatshirt, I'd actually have wanted the piece to be called “6,” and that people are making the mistake of viewing it upside down.

Others would counter that those who think my original intent was to call it “6” were neglecting to take into account my shoes and coat.

Some day a tech trillionaire will make such huge sculptures out of every successive strip of postage stamp backing that collects on my desk from my hobby of writing letters, And for the record, the title of this one is "9 (or 6 when I'm walking through the house in my socks)."