Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? Nothing should be forgotten. And that sky; was a crazy day. I lay there listening to your heart. The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. The most important.

That we never really become a part of the world. It was not the fields I came from. The lights lighted. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come.

The wall around the words. And yet, was it the big systems I feared? When you say my name, my body answers. I get the day going, writing quietly. I flick through the pages of some random book.

Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. Was there really a fire somewhere? I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The intimacy in writing.

The glittering secrets inside the stones. It was not the fields I came from.

We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans. A dark being oozes from my mouth and seems quiet.

It’s just that…

Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof.

And we awoke. I try to understand this coincidence: I could feel the fragile truth. Everything behind everything.

What do you count to? Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet.

Resisted, but wrote: nothing. To speak was too much. We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence.

Of all the shining, reflecting, dull. The last couple of nights still quiver in the top layers of my skin.

Back then we were slacking while the days passed between the nights. Some are stoned while trying to catch a dull, dusty router. Someone unfolds your thoughts and turns them into a dark future. When I think of that place, I think it is within everything.

Reading for nothingness. The books rested around the coffee. I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. Which night followed the night?

I have written you a map.

The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs.

I read your lines. I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. Sun storm. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. The words, small tops of foam. 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.

You can be in this landscape. I have written you a map. The sentences are an ocean. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. I flick through the pages of some random book. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. Glass hands.

Every morning I wake up and think: wow! What beautiful eyes. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences.

The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue. I wrote nothing down in that period. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. And yet, was it the big systems I feared?

Nothing is deeper than the skin?

Notebook. Under fire.

And yet, was it the big systems I feared? The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs. To speak was too much. I flick through the pages of some random book. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me.

Can I write that? This is how you answered. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.