Up on the hill.

But a part remained in the empty halls. On the balcony, this stream of new words, new sentences: You sparkle somewhere down there on my pages. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. We become the world. In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. We thought about political sentences, about not being included in what is common for all, in the decisions.