The grammar of shadows writes rules on the margin of sleep. Each letter breathes cold, vowels trembling like fragments of moon. Consonants aligned mark the pauses between beats of silence. The letters never sent remain hanging in ink pockets. The unsent letters bear seals of wind and rain. The margin of night reads them aloud, without answering. And I, spectator, watch the grammar sign its own destiny with ellipses, like stars fallen into a sea of paper.