But my language was not hostile.

The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. Nothing is deeper than the skin?

On a window pane. Sun storm. Which night followed the night? I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. 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.