Someone has turned his sweater inside out. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. Some light fires and turn into hesitant smoke, while others forever stiffen up and become like stone. Like reading forgotten newspapers.

And another day: When I woke up, I was certain:

Figs above the view.

It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet). Here the day is already far ahead of me. You say something about the sun. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident.

Do we have eyes? On a. Most important.

Our land. I wrote in my thoughts, followed the movements of the clouds with the wind. Take this morning. Like that you dragged the distant mountains. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. It is about surface. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.

Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds. Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert. Sentences whispered through the laundry and dropped a few caresses on my skin. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun.

This is how you answered. In my first App, I awoke and placed a light in your smile. I don’t disappear. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? Of other cities, other worlds. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

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 focus, coming really close to the writing. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

I wrote a sentence on your skin to help you see through my eyes. Under the blue, blue sky. On a window pane. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey. And that sky; was a crazy night. It is never the fast gaze.

Of all the shining, reflecting, dull. When I wrote your name in the light, a moonbeam fell through my window. The mind of the sun. The trees.

The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police. Glass hands. Where does ruined language want to go? A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The intimacy in writing. For every layer of meaning in the stones. The fire.

Our land. Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof. I think you had forgotten that one. I lay there listening to your heart. Incomprehensible sentences to dress in.

I sailed around on the surface of everything. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls.

The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. Grey. And we awoke.

Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. Together we mapped the order of things lying down. I think you had forgotten that one. What shall we do with the violent sky? I drew black squares on your skin to make sure everything was real.

Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind.

The cloud hid something from the birds. We are a conversation rising up behind the eyes. My one pen is red and the other is black. The seagulls in the streaming water and up on the sky.

By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.