I get the day going, writing quietly. The scratches. In the images, my language had become hostile: You put it in my window, on my window sill. In the night we write new books, and for every time we breathe in, others breathe out. I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. When I wake up and see you open your eyes. Like reading forgotten newspapers. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.