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.

Afterwards I spent hours reading. Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips. It doesn’t matter. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.

How long did you drift in the wind? A shy room, an intimate room. Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert.

I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere. Afterwards I spent hours reading. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.

A letter.

Reading for nothingness. On the balcony, I sat in the sun following a sentence you had told me while asleep, saw it move inward and disappear in a sparkling diamond.

Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light. The provinces and the songs of the pedestrian shopping street. I would like to give you all my diamonds. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details. I get the day going, writing quietly. Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. I let a random book lie, shining. Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert.

As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. In every day, your hands gently ran through my hair. The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. I have written you a map. From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths. I drank the dry. Someone pampers my darkness in the bright future (brb). Zeitgeist. Shit. Show.

In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. In every day, your hands gently ran through my hair. There was a whirling in the air and colours shimmered off the walls. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. The intimacy in writing.

I wake up and see you, your eyes. Incomprehensible sentences to dress in.

Who was it that wrote:

Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. You listened to my fierce heart, every word a sun that cannot burn.

I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings.

The coffee I am drinking tastes like the innermost of my socks. Desert, my beloved och darkness in the green glass. The plain turns into darkness and stone. Nightfall in the evening, the lights in the city, everything sleeping, everything growing. Rain meteor. For every layer of meaning the rocks.

The books sketched their own direction.

My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.

Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. Like sitting on the palm of your hand watching your uvula break the horizon.

I try to understand this coincidence:

To listen no longer made sense. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. Everything can disappear in meaningless eyes. I lay there listening to your heart.