We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence. I read random collections of poetry. Here the day is already far ahead of me. Desertion.

Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand.

Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. Somewhere in there under the despair of the sand, someone finds a small sparkling, a small sparkling green.

Not seek shelter. Coloured the words gentle.

Desertion. Can I be in this landscape? Did I sit alone? Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. When I do not see you, I do not see you.

When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window.

I drew black squares on your skin to make sure everything was real. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important. Asphalt. Indecision. I sailed in the pulsating, in the flowing dreams of sun. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. When I think of that place, I think it is within everything. Every morning I wake up and think: wow! What beautiful eyes. In there behind the words.

You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line.

We are a conversation rising up behind the eyes. Days. Weeks. When I see you. On a screen.

It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan.

Desertion. Assertion. Write me into your lips. Grey. It is like that. In the morning I sit there, slowly, reading about sand, about the sand, the movements of the sand across itself.

Does that make sense? All around I could only pull myself together to read a few random lines. The table wobbles. The coffee I am drinking tastes like the innermost of my socks. Something opened up. Was it only the rain?

Nothing is deeper than the skin. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. The intimacy in writing. The lights lighted.

I get the day going, writing quietly. I found a line somewhere under my bookcase. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey.

Were these lines really real? The mad sky. Incomprehensible sentences to dress up in.

I sailed around on the surface of everything. It is always this slow gaze. The fire. I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds. I sailed across the sea, drifted across the sky. Incomprehensible sentences to dress up in. And another day:

A shy room, an intimate room. Notes. Descriptions. Everything behind everything. The light followed me sharply, and I drew on the language dancing in the inner landscapes. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked. The trees.

Ord. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. 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.

I read random collections of poetry.

The first couple of days still quiver in the top layers of my skin. I wrote nothing down in that period.

In there behind the forest.

Back then we were slacking while the days passed between the nights. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. As I lay there and listened, I became afraid of losing you. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. I fell asleep and lay there and felt your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements.

Write me into your lips. Me, the fragile truth. In the images, my language had become hostile: Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams.

And another day: Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light. I read your lines. You, you. Over the rubble. You wrote no further.

At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.

I love to wake up and see you wake up.

The movement on the surface would make the words disappear.