Landscape 2.11.16 11:23:35 to 11:24:34

Someone has turned his sweater inside out. In the images, my language had become hostile: And another day: The intimacy in writing The eyes barely touching the pages. When I woke up, I was certain: Like sitting on a tongue, just looking out there. I wrote nothing down in that period. Over the rubble. Under the blue, blue sky. If only you spoke with silence, but you said nothing.