Sketches. Discharge. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other.

The view was hopeless. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. A wack room, a room for stars. I wrote in my thoughts, followed the movements of the clouds with the wind. Figs above the view. I don’t disappear. Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips. Everything is behind everything. The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste.