We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence. When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. It doesn’t matter. Can I write that? Intimacy, writing. Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? Who was it that wrote: When I think of that place, I think wowowow in a vague crossing of everything before everything.
Was the wind really blowing? We have neither curtains nor tight schedules.