They let me into a room that had the softness of a forgotten letter. Nothing touched the floor. Boxes and spheres drifted above a dark oval, as if the day had spilled its ink and the bright fragments refused to drown. Each object was composed of tame colors, patient bands that looked like rules a child might keep until evening.
A clerkly instinct rose in me: to stack, to count, to make them square with one another. I reached for a cube and felt the polite resistance of a thing that has already been assigned. Another changed its face as I approached, offering a new side, immaculate and useless. The tallest column trembled with a happiness I did not trust. From time to time tiny crumbs of light fell from it, settled near my shoes, and rearranged themselves into a small city that would not let me in.
No door was visible any longer; perhaps there had never been one. I understood that the room was not waiting for me to finish, only to continue. The colors were cheerful the way a schedule is cheerful, consolations in stripes. I stood at the edge of the black oval, which might have been a shadow or an hour, and listened to the quiet, steady breathing of the objects. They had learned how to remain airborne without hope. I practiced their method until night.
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