The seagulls in the streaming water and up on the sky. The northern lights quivering in your voice.

Impossible to get in there.

On a window pane. Everything behind everything. Here the day is already far ahead of me. Letter in April. Were these lines really real?

Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand.

It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. To speak was too much. Take this morning, for instance: Which night followed the night? Of other cities, other worlds.

Were these lines really real?

Sentences whispered through the laundry and dropped a few caresses on my skin. The most important.

The plain turns into darkness and stone. The lime.

It was before you could disappear. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Figs above the view. You can be in this landscape.

In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep.

I was in your body, and you? I could feel your heart beat against my dick.

It was not the forests I came from.

This is not a game. Everything behind everything. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down through each our idea of it, I could no longer hide the words, the sentences, the images. Something opened up. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences.

The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book.

Sentences are an ocean.

I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. I sat alone in the sun. Like another day where that was impossible.

It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet).

I get the day going, writing quietly.

The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police.

The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night. I could not phrase those sentences.

Did I sit alone? I could feel the fragile truth. The scratches. Take this morning, for instance: It was not the forests I came from. I flick through the pages of some random book. This is not a game.

In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.

Are you on the other side of the sea?

Does that make sense?

I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. The most important. On a window pane. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. When I do not see you, I do not see you. I try to understand this coincidence:

Your diamonds shine in my mouth. It was not the fields I came from. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. The fire. It is always this slow gaze. The air and the songs of the Earth. Coloured the words gentle. The lights lighted. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down through each our idea of it, I could no longer hide the words, the sentences, the images. The books rested around the coffee.

Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future.

The last time I was happy was only this morning. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. What should be forgotten? Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.