Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert. The sentences are tangled threads. The most important. Write me into your lips. Days. Weeks. Friends. Did you know that? It doesn’t matter. Letter in April. It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet). Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. I read your lines.

Together we mapped the order of things lying down. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night. Was the fresh foliage really on fire? On the bus, I wrote you a text message.

Meaningful days with notes, reflections. Does that make sense? Someone is dressing up for dancing. Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers.

If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze. Did you drag the outermost mountains? We thought of contexts of natural phenomena: The quivering of northern lights in your voice; glittering secrets inside the stones, inside the Earth, inside each other.

The city idles just as heavenly under the dark-dark of the sky. Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.

Somewhere behind the eyes a careful lamp looks. I had not yet met you. It was not the forests I came from. Every day slid along with me. The cloud hid something from the birds. Did you drag the outermost mountains? In the horizon a black cloud screamed for the smallest details. Was I quiet? Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. Are you on the other side of the sea? The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared.

We are the delicate, the quiet. Can I write like that? I tell you this, because I was lost in that desert for a longer period of time. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. I would like to give you all my diamonds. One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Like reading forgotten newspapers. In the lips and in the skin. One night, giraffes from dreams.

By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. We thought about words that continued to headline campaigns. That we never really become a part of the world. Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds.

Does that make sense? You must not. Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. That we never really become a part of the world. Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. Not seek shelter. By the outermost shores we found a small, green stone.

Seek shelter in the river. Was it the forests you came from? Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? Under the blue, blue sky.

You must not disappear. I wrote nothing down in that period. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. Nothing, I received nothing. I could forget what is forgotten. You mustn’t disappear. If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come. Through the hole in the fence. And we awoke. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. Everything behind everything.

I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. You say something. You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. I drew your skin on everything. Somewhere in there under the despair of the sand, someone finds a small sparkling, a small sparkling green. The clothes on my body hangs on my body. Around hesitant stars, things. Seek shelter. And we awoke. In the sunlight a precious stone quivers from the depths of the Earth. When I wake up and see you open your eyes.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. There was something that opened up. Seek shelter. Deserted. The intimacy in writing. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. We, to the quiet. You, you. Me, the fragile truth. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.