Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes.

We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans. By the outermost shores we found a small, green stone. You, you. I am on the other side of the sea. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. Not forget the rivers in the ears. The most important. When I do not see you, I do not see you.

The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue. I wrote nothing down in that period. I could not phrase those sentences.

The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. Sun storm. 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. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.

That we never really become a part of the world.

But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls.

Not seek shelter. You answered like that. I sat alone in the sun.

When I woke up, I was certain: The lime.

In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me.

The intimacy in writing. Who was it that wrote: In the night we write new books, and for every time we breathe in, others breathe out.

It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. I read your lines. Can I write like that? Like another day where that was impossible. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window.

To listen no longer made sense.

Glass hands.

You wrote a wound into my future. The fire. I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. Impossible to get in there.

In my first App, I awoke and placed a light in your smile.

Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. Desertion. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. That we never really become a part of the world. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes.

One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape.

I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. On the bus I wrote a text message for you.

I had not yet met you. I sailed around on the surface of everything. Was the wind really blowing? You answered like that. The table wobbles. Can I be in this landscape? I don’t disappear. Get lost, you answered. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.

And we fell asleep. A letter.

The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. The most important. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

Like reading forgotten newspapers. You can be in this landscape. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me.

It is like that. I, not you. In the lips and in the skin. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come.

Does that make sense? In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth. 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.

Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. Your. I lay there listening to your heart. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. The intimacy in writing. The sentences are an ocean.