The fire. The scratches. Were you the night’s desperate silence? What, hangs. You had lost a line in my dream.

When I read a boring poem, I read a boring poem and it struck me: The summer was quite all right after all, autumn and winter. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

It was before you could disappear. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. I tell you this, because I was lost in that desert for a longer period of time. I lay there listening to your heart. We stood in there and told stories and listened. From time to time you said some words I didn’t understand. What should be forgotten? It is like that. Desertion. It is about. You had found a green stone?

You say something about the sun. And yet, was it the codes, the systems? Can I write that? I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories.

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 sentences are an ocean. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences.

Sun storm. And that sky; was a crazy day. Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers. On the bus, I wrote you a text message. I flick through the pages of some random book. And only thought of the lines, of the way they resembled, the way they coloured and charmed and I don’t know what. Can I write that?

I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. We sat alone in the night. The sentences are an ocean.

Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. On a window pane. From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths. The plain turns into darkness and stone. There was a whirling in the air and colours shimmered off the walls. Of all the shining, reflecting, dull. The glittering secrets inside the stones. Someone has turned his sweater inside out.

Days. Weeks. Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity. The northern lights quivering in your voice. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. The lights lighted. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey.

I get the day going, writing quietly.

When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. Now a restlessness in the body.

Like sitting on the palm of your hand watching your uvula break the horizon. On a big piece of white paper. Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light. You can be in this landscape.

You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me see through your eyes. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. In the night we write new books, and for every time we breathe in, others breathe out.

I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything.

I lay in the darkness and turned my thoughts on so they could see through the quiet. My bones are also making sounds, and inside them a dark being undulates and moves. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. The mind of the sun. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey.

This is what my dreams looked like at the time. The view was hopeless.

Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers. Like reading forgotten newspapers.

And that sky; was a crazy day. Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity.

The pain sailing on streams of gold in dawn’s canopy of light. Sentences are an ocean.