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.