Zoetrope
by Paul Franz

Being outcast, we amused ourselves with counting: pebbles, our footsteps, stones, the number of times we heard a certain insect (we did not know its name). I had heard it twice. You had heard it three times, maybe four. If we both heard it next time, so we agreed, we would have to name it, provided we remembered.

Next we tried reasoning. You tried to find our position by the sun. I tried to convince you that it wasn't necessary, that we couldn't be far from home, since one cannot logically move from place to place, but must always be halving the distance between them. The sun set on our reasoning. Our feet were sore.

In the morning we each had one egg for breakfast. Now we only had two of the ones we brought with us. They were speckled and cooked quickly in the sun. That morning we saw: six flowers, three clouds, one rock, and some grass. (Grass is a fluid quantity.) We did not hear the insect.

In the afternoon, I tried to show you, sketching in the sand, how two lines can approach each other infinitely without touching. Not these lines, of course (one cannot draw them finely enough) but real ones. For a line is that which has no breadth.

You could count the blades of grass before they touch. You were not interested. You were too tired and hungry, you said. We had eaten the eggs at midday: so much we had gained without labor.

As you slept, I tried to perceive the smallest unit of time, halving down the infinities between moments. (I measured by your breath.) Between the integers one and two lies infinity. Between the integers one and a million also lies infinity. Could one live long enough to count to a million? One cannot logically move from one to two.

I counted only in integers. For thought itself has speed.

As you slept, I tried to draw you. I did not have any colors. No longer any true ones. I could make do with three. The trick is to be quick enough. I open my fingers. The sand falls: unnumbered grains (there are no fluid quantities) in momentary strings.

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