They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs At that part of the silence of night. The glittering secrets inside the stones. Something opened up. I, you, it. A shy room, an intimate room. Deserted.

Days. Weeks. Friends.

The books rested around the coffee. I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. The light followed me sharply, and I drew on the language dancing in the inner landscapes. And another day: Was it the forests you came from? Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line.

The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. You answered like that. When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth.

Letter in April. Me, me. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. I’ve stalled on the threshold of the day. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. Over the rubble. Around things.

We thought about words we could not forget. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future.

Mørket kaldte vi bare for mørket mens vi lod dets tæppe trække sig ind i dagen som en brusende sky fyldt med den skrøbeligste alvor. Her er dagen allerede langt foran mig.

De lyser indefra mørket sammen med et par tøvende sætninger og den dyrebare uro, jeg fik foræret i gave engang ved et tilfælde.

Pludselig en nat faldt der giraffer ud af dine drømme. Stolen jeg sad på knirkede i solen. Uden grund. Her er dagen allerede langt foran mig. Stigen op til sætningen: Det var mig, der ringede efter politiet. Sletterne trak helt ud til havet som trak videre i himlen som trak i øjnene som en let tåge.

At tale var blevet uoverskueligt. Og vi vågnede.

Sætningen, der lige før faldt ud af din mund. Avedøre Stationsby, et pophit i tre glemte takter. Bagefter var det uroen, den ensomme uro ved at vågne i dage forrevne og stille. Trak jeg dig med til de yderste bjerge?

I hver dag gled rester af betydning med mig videre. Var der virkelig ild et sted? Du må ikke forsvinde. Blå. Bordet vipper. Du skrev en sætning i min hud, for at jeg bedre kunne se igennem dine øjne. Krukkerne stod i den lysende linje imellem en trappe og husenes skygge under tagene

Idealet, hvisker den stille vind, er ikke nødvendigvis de klippede træer, den stramt komponerede bog. Vidste du det? Når jeg tænker på det sted, tænker jeg, at det ligger udenfor alting. Jeg ville gerne give dig alle mine diamanter Nu skriver jeg igen på en søjle af digte.Nu skriver jeg igen på en søjle af digte. Nu skriver jeg igen på en søjle af digte.