Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. Not forget the rivers in the ears. We thought about words we could not forget.

In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. Was there really a fire somewhere? Which night followed the night? The shadow followed the lights and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the light. Which night followed the night? Can writing be shy? Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night?

I read random collections of poetry. You dragged me towards the distant mountains like that. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

Your diamonds shine from my mouth. I was in your body, and you? Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. In the fog, not quite being able to see the road, see the path. Here the day is already far ahead of me.

The sand in my thoughts. Did I sit alone? My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days. Out by the factories. I have written you a map. The northern lights hesitating in our voices.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. In the morning, darkness seems to move closer to my skin and there is an accident flickering inside my eyes.

When you say my name, my body answers. Your bones are also making sounds, and inside them a light being undulates and moves.

Sentences are an ocean. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. The cohesions in your lips, in your eyes and the brittle landscape, to reach all the way out there. Can writing be shy? I see stone, I see water, I see lumps of meat squirming in a light-light idyll. The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down through each our idea of it, I could no longer hide the words, the sentences, the images.

It was not the fields I came from. I read your lines. It was after the trees, even after the movement of my fingers through light, through skin, through landscape after landscape. What should be forgotten?

Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity. Can I write like that? There is something about places filled with things that will happen.

Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes.

The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. Over the rubble. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. Every day we fire up the planets. Together we mapped the order of things lying down. Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists.

Notes. Descriptions. We are a conversation rising up behind the eyes. Do we have the same eyes? I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. The lime. Coloured the words gentle. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. For every layer of meaning in the stones.

By the outermost shores you had found a small, green stone.

Nothing should be forgotten. Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds.

It’s just that… Are you on the other side of the sea? Was there really a fire somewhere? Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds. Who was it that wrote: What should be forgotten? In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me.

I could feel your heart beat against my dick.

The last time I was happy was only this morning.

I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future. I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape.

I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape.

Ord. When I wrote your name in the light, a moonbeam fell through my window. Coloured the words gentle. Under the blue, blue sky. Can I be in this landscape? The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. Were these lines really real? I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.