Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? I see stone, I see water, I see lumps of meat squirming in a light-light idyll. Everything is behind everything.

On a window pane. And we, melancholy sleepers, talking (chat, chat), waking, falling in crosses. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.