In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. Can I write like that?

Write me into your lips. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. You say something about the sun.

I had not yet met you. Sentences are an ocean. You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body.