Sentences are an ocean. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. The cohesions in your lips, in your eyes and the brittle landscape, to reach all the way out there. Can writing be shy? I see stone, I see water, I see lumps of meat squirming in a light-light idyll. The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down through each our idea of it, I could no longer hide the words, the sentences, the images.