If you stare at the floor long enough, it detaches like film on rotisserie chicken but with a m=0 straightness as y goes from nothing to an arbitrary positive number. It then folds somewhere past your knees and with you in it, crisp, like fresh paper. Once, and then again, and a fifth time. If it folds a sixth time, this is reality and also a Rick and Morty reference. It is really 4.16P.M., the trees are really bare, the biting frost now means more sheets tonight. But if it doesn't,
I will never know. Which means, fall might not have come and the last time I read a book was yesterday, which means you might not yet have left.
Which means never letting the floor fold six times. Schrodinger rules that you have both left and not left, and if the floor folds six times I made you leave.
So I never let the floor fold six times.
To be safe, I blink really hard once it hits the fourth. It is hard to gauge how long each fold takes, and some things you cannot afford to chance.
The floor unfolds like your pocket square and restores at ground level. Voids, as voids are, resume boundless expanse. Mine is limited by this floor, a reminder of how low I have fallen.
Above me, cats suspend mid-air, apostrophes pregnant.