Ocean June 21, 2014 11:42:39 AM – 11:44:17 AM

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.

Ocean June 21, 2014 11:41:36 AM – 11:42:36 AM

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.

Landscape June 21, 2014 11:38:29 AM – 11:40:49 AM

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-.

Landscape June 21, 2014 11:36:55 AM – 11:38:26 AM

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.

Landscape June 21, 2014 11:35:14 AM – 11:36:52 AM

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.

Landscape June 21, 2014 11:32:32 AM – 11:35:10 AM

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.

Ocean June 21, 2014 11:25:49 AM – 11:28:26 AM

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.

Ocean June 21, 2014 11:20:59 AM – 11:22:24 AM

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.

Landscape June 21, 2014 11:14:02 AM – 11:16:00 AM

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.

Ocean June 21, 2014 11:11:03 AM – 11:12:56 AM

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.