On a window pane. It was only the sense of fire, of water, of moon, of the functions of your body so near, the noise (that was always still). In the day a near voice was almost awake. Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert.

Red. The sentence that fell from your mouth just now.

I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

Barely touching your kisses, your lines of dark. I wrote myself into a frenzy back then.

In there behind the forest. Who was it that wrote:

Now I am just sailing in version …. The most important. The books rested around the coffee.

Not seek shelter in the river. The shadows shadowed. Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs.

Can I be in this landscape? The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police.

At that part of the silence of night. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. Everything is behind everything. The most important. Sentences are delicate circuits. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line.

On a window pane. Of other cities, other worlds. The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. Glass hands. An extroverted room, an embracing room. The table wobbles.

Like sitting on a tongue, just looking out there. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. Figs above the view. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.

Reading for nothingness. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. The woods.

You must not. You, the sun. It is like that. It was not the fields I came from. A letter.

In the sunlight a precious stone quivers from the depths of the Earth.

Something opened up. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me.

Which night followed the night? In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night?

On the balcony, this stream of new words, new sentences: You sparkle somewhere down there on my pages. Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night? We thought of giraffes, cheetahs an

By the outermost shores we found a small, green stone. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes.

Then I saw the third night in the stillness, in the distance. It is like that.

I don’t disappear. On a big piece of white paper.

Of all the shining, reflecting, dull. What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to?

What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to?

What do you count to? What do you count to? What do you count to?

Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes. Star continent. You say something about the sun. The wall around the words. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come. I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body. I could feel the fragile truth.

As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories.

My one pen is red and the other is black. The lime. Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. Incomprehensible sentences to dress in. The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. Nothing is deeper than the skin? Some are stoned while trying to catch a dull, dusty router.

If I wanted your gaze. I get the day going, writing quietly. Your sentences.

There was a whirling in the air and colours shimmered off the walls.

Of other cities, other worlds. Darkness we just called darkness.

Over the rubble.

Did you know that?

A letter. Like sitting on a tongue, just looking out there. I don’t want, you.