I wrote nothing down in that period. Reading for nothingness. It is like that.

Everything is behind everything. Our land. In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth. Behind the trees. The eyes barely touching the pages. I lay there listening to your heart. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.