The light reflecting off the sea onto the bedroom ceiling trembles like a letter you have to hold in both hands to read. Writing the letter was one of the last things the hand that wrote it did, but not the very last. For years the letter has been buried at the bottom of a shoebox at the bottom of the bottom drawer of the desk in the corner of the room. Folded in half in its envelope, the letter has had no choice but to go on reading itself, the first half reading the second half, the second half reading the first. It’s gotten to where the halves have grown sick of one another, like a married couple who no longer talk about what happened in the bedroom where the light reflecting off the sea onto the ceiling trembles like a letter you have to hold in both hands.
or maybe it's the end of the story....
This sounds like just the beginning of the story. I'm eager to hear more😧