And only thought of the lines, of the way they resembled, the way they coloured and charmed and I don’t know what. A shy room, an intimate room. Incomprehensible sentences to dress up in. From time to time you said some words. The lights lighted.

When I read a boring poem, I read a boring poem and it struck me: The summer was quite all right after all, autumn and winter. We thought of contexts of natural phenomena: The quivering of northern lights in your voice; glittering secrets inside the stones, inside the Earth, inside each other.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

A shy room, an intimate room. The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs. I saw ships moving behind the sea, the light of their sentences in rough seas.

Was there really a fire somewhere?