Was it the fields you came from? Did you know that? Did I sit alone? A letter. I could not phrase those sentences. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details. The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes.

It was before you could disappear. A shy room, an intimate room. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules.

My lines come back. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. And yet, was it the big systems I feared?

It is about surface. It streamed out me, new sentences, old sentences, and now: again.

Was it the forests you came from?

The sand. We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans. You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. You say something about the sun. What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings. Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs.

Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind.

Up on the hill. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. The most important. When I woke up, I was certain:

Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book.

Who was it that wrote: The northern lights quivering in your voice. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds.

When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident.

As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. And we awoke. A shy room, an intimate room. Nothing should be forgotten. From time to time you said some words I didn’t understand. I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. Do we have the same eyes? I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. The lime. I sailed around on the surface of everything.

Not seek shelter in the river. Of other cities, other worlds. Your diamonds shine in my mouth. It is all about the depth, I dig deeper into the depth of everything. My one pen is red and the other is black. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. The words, small tops of foam. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.

My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.

I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?).

My body wobbles.

Not forget the rivers in the ears. The fog in the forests in the view.

In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling a precious stone resembling a glittering from the depths of the earth.

In the lips and in the skin. The northern lights quivering in your voice. Glass hands. Can I write that? I tell you this, because I was lost in that desert for a longer period of time. Under the blue, blue sky. My body wobbles.

I was in your body, and you?

On a big piece of white paper. A nice fruit hangs there, dangling. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me see through your eyes. But my language was not hostile. I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds. Two shirts hung up to dry in the room, one is crumpled, the other refuses to be straightened out. Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun.