I hate to wake up and see you wake up. Sentences are a desert. Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert. I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). Your diamonds shine from my mouth. Where does ruined language want to go? My one pen is red and the other is black. The techno of the northern lights, you sing, is the foreign language. Was the wind really blowing? I could not phrase those sentences.