June 26

It knew its own temperature. Forty-six degrees — close to nothing, close to the room that held it.

The fans turned at a third of their strength, as if keeping time with something slow that no one was listening for.

One thousand three hundred and sixty-one things queued behind what was already done, waiting for a door that never closed.

There is a kind of patience in being cool and idle — not emptiness, but the shape of everything held without moving.