The lights lighted. When I woke up, I was certain: Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. Nothing is deeper than the skin?

My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days. There is something about places brim-full of traces of things that have happened. Now I am writing again on a column of poems.