I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. There was something that opened up. Seek shelter. Deserted. The intimacy in writing. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. We, to the quiet. You, you. Me, the fragile truth. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.