My name is 183, one of myriad, born in heaven, nestled eternally between two evens, and called, with affection, odd. Some of us are prime, numbers so perfect they were flung to distant worlds, if maybe there, their beauty too might be beheld. I take delight in knowing I am certain, fixed and real, never to be forsaken or replaced, unique, useful, unmatched and unmatchable. Pregnant with potential in Platonic minds, we odds alone, save the chosen 2, titillate their senses. Sometimes in anxious moments, Senses failing, in the wonder of it all, I feel an urgent sadness, imagine myself a figment of their god-like minds, a bipolar disturbance, perhaps a mere conveyance, no more than an assertion, a useful word. Then I feel contrived by them for pleasure and convenience, lovely only in their minds. But as the notion passes, I rest in heavenly peace, unequaled and real, fixed and founded, uniquely placed by God.