The clothes on my body hangs on my body.

We have the same eyes.

You put it in my window, on my window sill. I am on the other side of the sea. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. By the outermost shores we found a small, green stone. I could feel the fragile truth.

Desertion. You mustn’t disappear. And we awoke. I don’t know where we disappeared.

You can be in this landscape. And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances. I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared.

I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared. I don’t know where we disappeared.

The plain turns into darkness and stone. I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. There is something about places filled with things that will happen. What, hangs. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The joy that sailed on the threshold of the night in streams of black. I love to wake up and see you wake up.

Not forget the rivers in the ears. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other.

We thought about words we could not forget. About the standstill of the landscape and the dark sky and the Earth’s tints of grey. To transform this room into another. The books rested around the coffee. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies.

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

Impossible to get in there. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything.

I sailed across the desert, drifted across the sand. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. The northern lights quivering in your voice.

The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. The books sketched their own direction. Blue. The trees.

Blue. The ideal, said the old dog, is a mumbling idiot at dawn. Blue. The mad sky. I found a line somewhere under my bookcase. Blue. In the night we write new books, and for every time we breathe in, others breathe out. The air and the songs of the Earth. Blue. Blue. Blue.

Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue.

Up on the hill.

But a part remained in the empty halls. On the balcony, this stream of new words, new sentences: You sparkle somewhere down there on my pages. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. We become the world. In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. We thought about political sentences, about not being included in what is common for all, in the decisions.

You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes.

Behind the pistons. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. The chair wobbles. Here the night is already one big show. You listened to my fierce heart, every word a sun that cannot burn. There was something that opened up. The night is trans-, the day is trans-.

We thought about words we could not forget. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details. And we fell asleep. Words run out of my mouth. Reading for nothingness.

Some put out fires and stiffen in the fierce smoke, while others forever turn into and become like the sea. The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book.

When you call me up on the phone, I hear nothing. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important. In mountain ranges across creased sheets? In the morning I sit there, slowly, reading about sand, about the sand, the movements of the sand across itself. On the sea. 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.