There are many rooms in the Factory. In fact, one could
say, and one might even be agreed with, that the entirety of the Factory is
made up of rooms. Rooms, hallways, that lead to other rooms. Rooms inside of
rooms. Rooms next to rooms. Rooms above, and below, other rooms.
There are red rooms. Blue rooms. Rooms for sitting. Rooms
for drawing. Rooms for thinking. Rooms that make things. Rooms that unmake
things. Rooms that unmake things other rooms made. Rooms for sleeping. Rooms
for gardening. Rooms for visiting. Rooms that write letters. Rooms for waiting.
Rooms containing ceramic elephants. Rooms with no easily discernible walls.
Rooms with no lights. Rooms with no suns. Rooms that contain highly advanced,
delicate, and lucrative equipment. Rooms
containing books. Rooms that contain nothing. Rooms that are chocolate flavored.
Rooms that contain four generations of the properly disposed hair and
fingernail clippings of Wanamingo, Minnesota. Rooms that are magic. Rooms that
are dreams. Rooms that are not.
There are large rooms. Small rooms. Smaller rooms. Rooms
that sit on the tips of pins. Rooms inside buildings. Rooms containing
buildings. Rooms of variable size. Rooms that aren’t where they are supposed to
be. Rooms hung in the firmament. Rooms behind eyes. Rooms inside undiscovered
insects inside amber. Rooms built on supposedly cursed Indian burial grounds. Rooms containing minds. Rooms that are under
water. Rooms that are under couch cushions. Rooms in cardinal directions. Rooms
inside cardinals. Rooms inside books. Rooms inside lungs. Rooms at the bottom
of shot glasses. Rooms that are not in Hell. Rooms in the shadow cast inside
the gap between your bookcase and the wall. Rooms that contain galaxies.
There are rooms.
