I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. On the bus I wrote a text message for you.

I had not yet met you. I sailed around on the surface of everything. Was the wind really blowing? You answered like that. The table wobbles. Can I be in this landscape? I don’t disappear. Get lost, you answered. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.