As a Result, All the Periods Throughout the Night Were Turned into Ellipses.

As a result, the full stops of the whole night were turned into ellipses, like after an unknown rain, all the firm endings were loosened. The moonlight fell on the window sill, and silvery debris fell into the pages of the old book. Those originally complete sentences quietly softened into hesitant gasps. I stretched out my hand to pick up a intact dot, but I only touched a string of moist tail notes. They hung on my fingertips, like unawakened dewdrops, which shattered into omissions of the story with a slight shake. The wind slipped in through the crack in the door and lifted up the corners of the paper page after page, as if continuing the unspoken sentence for someone. I heard time ticking on the wall, but I couldn't find a complete full stop to put an end to last night. So I put the ellipses into my palms and let them dry up slowly along the palm lines, like a river that no longer flows, leaving the unfinished words for tomorrow. Maybe some stories are destined not to end and can only continue to grow in silence, like the tuberose outside the window. The darker it gets, the more unwilling it is to close its petals, passing on the unfinished fragrance bit by bit to the longer night.