Days. Weeks. Friends.

The books rested around the coffee. I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. The light followed me sharply, and I drew on the language dancing in the inner landscapes. And another day: Was it the forests you came from? Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line.

The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. You answered like that. When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth.

Letter in April. Me, me. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. I’ve stalled on the threshold of the day. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. Over the rubble. Around things.

We thought about words we could not forget. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future.