You can be in this landscape. I have written you a map. The sentences are an ocean. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. I flick through the pages of some random book. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. Glass hands.

Every morning I wake up and think: wow! What beautiful eyes. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences.

The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue. I wrote nothing down in that period. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. And yet, was it the big systems I feared?

Nothing is deeper than the skin?

Notebook. Under fire.

And yet, was it the big systems I feared? The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs. To speak was too much. I flick through the pages of some random book. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me.

Can I write that? This is how you answered. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.

It doesn’t matter. It is every single street view filled with our arms and legs. Our skin is stretched out over yet another email, RE: RE: Forward: Break my bones, you said, my innermost is white like most of your eye. Light await departure. When I think of that place, I think it is within everything. They light up the shadows while some liquid oozes, oozes in darkest darkness.

In the day we write old books, and every time we breathe out, others breathe in.

I get the day going, writing quietly. Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers. Sentences are an ocean. Stuff like that. Through the hole in the fence. Over the rubble. My bones are also making sounds, and inside them a dark being undulates and moves. Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun. There was a whirling in the air and colours shimmered off the walls. Your diamonds shine from my mouth.

I have written you a map. On the bus I wrote a text message for you.

Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. In the images, my language had become hostile: And only thought of the lines, of the way they resembled, the way they coloured and charmed and I don’t know what. Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences.

You say something about the sun. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. When I do not see you, I do not see you. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof. In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth.

It was not the forests I came from. Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof.

When I wake up and see you open your eyes. The words, small tops of foam. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere. Figs on the ground. To transform this room into another.

We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details.

It doesn’t matter. Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun. You, you await a sweet sun. It is always this slow gaze.

The chair I sat on creaked in the sun.

Grey. The intimacy in writing.

My writing is coloured by itself. A shy room, an intimate room.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. I found a line somewhere under my bookcase. Reading for nothingness. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts.

Like reading forgotten newspapers.