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.

I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. Which night followed the night? Blue. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey.

The first couple of days still quiver in the top layers of my skin. Sentences are an ocean.

It is every single tree in my heart, quickly but inevitably stiffening among drops of water and quiet clusters of grass. The seagulls in the streaming water and up on the sky. Which night followed the night? A dark being oozes from my mouth and seems quiet.

The trees. I kissed a summer’s blush of dawn. Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light.

They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies.

We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. This is how you answered. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.

The focus, coming really close to the writing. The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips.

Write me into your lips. It is about surface. I lay there listening to your heart. And that sky; was a crazy day.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. We stood in there and told stories and listened. It is about surface.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. Something opened up. It is about surface.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface.