It was not the fields I came from.

Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it.

Of other cities, other worlds.

Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind.

You can be in this landscape. You, you. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements.

The worried third is completely beside itself. We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence.

In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me.

The outermost shores, a green stone. Together we mapped: You, you. If I wanted your gaze.

But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls. One morning, a piece of the sky.

Did we walk through mountains of slowness? Ord. I have written a map. You in my window. In the sunlight, a precious stone. I was only this morning. I had not yet met you.

There was a flickering on the screen, a voice that spoke behind the darkness.

The night is trans-, the day is trans-.

The mind of the sun. The light in my distant fingers: The city ended before it had begun. I’ve stalled on the threshold of the day. And another day:

Our skin is stretched out over yet another email, RE: RE: Forward:

What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings. I shake a random book. Your dress goes up in the East and down in the West. In the images, I saw enemies and birds and blank papers and rain. Reading for nothingness. The book I was reading slowly slipped further away in my thoughts. Star continent.

I went for walks on my own, listening to other people’s loving conversations.

How long did you drift in the wind? The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. I read random collections of poetry. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds. The last time I was happy was only this morning. The focus, coming really close to the writing.

I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.

In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. Somewhere in there under the despair of the sand, someone finds a small sparkling, a small sparkling green. I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. I don’t disappear. In my first App, I awoke and placed a light in your smile.

If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze. In the lips and in the skin.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. You put it in my window, on my window sill. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. To transform this room into another.

Not forget the rivers in the ears.

When you say my name, my body answers.

I kissed a summer’s blush of dawn. What should be forgotten? It was your lips. What shall we do with the violent sky? Does that make sense? Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? From time to time you said some words I didn’t understand. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds.

In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. You say something about the sun. I try to understand this coincidence: Can I write like that? They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. Take this morning, for instance: It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes.

That we never really become a part of the world.