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.

Was there really a fire somewhere? Through the hole in the fence.

In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. Somewhere behind the eyes a careful lamp looks. Like another day where that was impossible. Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. Incomprehensible sentences to dress up in. I wrote nothing down in that period. You answered like that.

Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line. And we awoke. The cloud hid something from the birds. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. And we awoke.

And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke.

And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke.

And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke. And we awoke.

And we awoke.

What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to?

What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to?

What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to?

Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. I sat alone in the sun. Coloured the words gentle. Everything behind everything.

I don’t know where we disappeared.

The rain, the wind between the leaves of trees, your lips, your lips, your lips.

In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep.

I don’t disappear. Were these lines really real?

From the greatest lines we find, every night – in the dark darkness that is dark – our way into the most insignificant scientific truths. The intimacy in writing. …brb… Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. Like the palm of a hand without flesh; light and shadow falling through it. I could not phrase those sentences.

Mail in November. Someone has put his sweater on properly. The sand. Like another night where everything was lol lol and hectic screaming in the distance. The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. A bare piece to chew on, that is what poetry is like down to the smallest details. You in my window, on my window sill.

My one pen is red and the other is black. The words tear into the innermost. Figs on the ground.

And yet, was it the big systems I feared?

Days. Weeks.

While I read your sentences, you wrote further into yourself. Birds flapping in the clinking of the diode night. Nothing is deeper than the skin? The lime. Sand eyes. The techno of the northern lights, you sing, is the foreign language.

The chair wobbles.