My one pen is red and the other is black. Notes. Descriptions. All around I could only pull myself together to read a few random lines. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. That we never really become a part of the world. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. What shall we do with the violent sky? I flick through the pages of some random book.

Sentences are an ocean. Sentences are an ocean. Sentences are an ocean.