A thing is infinite. That is, if it is a thing in truth, and not a heap. A heap, too, can be a thing, of course, and perhaps it is in observing the thinghood of a heap that we can see the infinity of a thing most unquestionably, and venture an essay on the source of the infinity of a thing.
Let there be a heap of laundry accumulating on the floor of a young fellow's dorm room. At first, the fellow's roommate kicks off his socks after getting into bed and pushes them out onto the bare floor. The next morning, the fellow returns from class to find his roommate has finally awoken and dressed, which means his underwear have more or less joined the socks. The fellow figures his roommate will clean up later—too busy playing Halo at the moment; the fellow understands how it is. That night the fellow's roommate deposits his pants, undershirt, t-shirt and cap on top of the socks and underpants, perhaps with the idea of putting the same clothes on in the morning. But overnight the loose collection of articles of clothing has transformed into laundry, and the roommate confirms their expiration as components of a wardrobe by jumping out of the top bunk directly over them.
All is not right now in the room, our fellow discerns as he blearily awakens.
To be continued.