On the bus, I wrote you a text message. We climb mountains and sail on the outer shivering of the cities.

I could not phrase those sentences. And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances.

The city. There is something about places brim-full of traces of things that have happened. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.