Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines. Lines of shadow crossed by other shadows, also lines, the horizontal emanations of more lines, vertical ones, upright pillars of wood. And if you took a saw to one of these pillars of wood, effected a removal of it, in would spill floods of space to fill the empty space, though so quickly that there would never actually be an empty space, space without space. No, space would always fill space, so amorphous, elastic is space.
There would, for instance, be no perusing of the unoccupied territory, followed by a thought, a decision, an invasion. Nothing so anthropomorphic. No, space is much more innocent, more spatially omniscient than that. Does it enter then the reconquered territory, the erstwhile colony of matter, gleefully, triumphantly? No, innocence again. Such notions of vindictive glory, the supposedly rightful and justified accompaniment to space's reconquest of space, as it were: are not such notions precisely such occasions of hardened matter, colonies of impurity, residues of selfhood superimposed upon innocence? Not that I imagine such thoughts of space's hypothetical wallowing in self-glorification when engaged in the re-conquering of spatial territories temporarily having been annexed by accretions of matter are especially commonplace. The thought that too many of us fall prey to just such intellectual temptations is a doubtful one.
Shadows of wood crossing shadows on wood.