You answered like that. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future.

I flick through the pages of some random book. I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds.

A shy room, an intimate room. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind. Something was dull (was dull) between my fingers.

You answered like that. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. A shy room, an intimate room. When you say my name, my body answers. This is not a game. You can be in this landscape. Nothing is deeper than the skin? This is how you answered. Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. You say something about the sun. The table wobbles. Were these lines really real? We stood in there and told stories and listened.

I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?).

It is every single tree in my heart, quickly but inevitably stiffening among drops of water and quiet clusters of grass. And that sky; was a crazy day. The mind of the sun. Of all the shining, reflecting, dull. The eyes barely touching the pages. Here the day is already far ahead of me.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

The books sketched their own direction.

We thought about words we could not forget. Desertion. Assertion. The sentences are an ocean. Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. Letter in April. I have written you a map. Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform.

We stood in there and told stories and listened. A shy room, an intimate room.

You answered like that. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams.

We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. Did you know that? On a big piece of white paper. Was I quiet? Not seek shelter in the river.

Someone has turned his sweater inside out. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. Some light fires and turn into hesitant smoke, while others forever stiffen up and become like stone. Like reading forgotten newspapers.

And another day: When I woke up, I was certain:

Figs above the view.

It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet). Here the day is already far ahead of me. You say something about the sun. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident.

Do we have eyes? On a. Most important.

Our land. I wrote in my thoughts, followed the movements of the clouds with the wind. Take this morning. Like that you dragged the distant mountains. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. It is about surface. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.

Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds. Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert. Sentences whispered through the laundry and dropped a few caresses on my skin. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun.

This is how you answered. In my first App, I awoke and placed a light in your smile. I don’t disappear. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? Of other cities, other worlds. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity. The focus, coming really close to the writing. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.