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.

It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. The plain turns into darkness and stone. Now I am writing again on a column of poems. Can I write that?

Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. For every layer of meaning in the stones. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked.

The books rested around the coffee. Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. I have written you a map. Were these lines really real?

Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. But my language was not hostile. Rain meteor. Was there really a fire somewhere? It is about surface. Behind the trees. You say something about the sun. The northern lights quivering in your voice.

Sketches. Discharge. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other.

The view was hopeless. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. A wack room, a room for stars. I wrote in my thoughts, followed the movements of the clouds with the wind. Figs above the view. I don’t disappear. Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips. Everything is behind everything. The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste.

The mind of the sun. Sense? Don’t disappear. All around I could only pull myself together to read a few random lines. When I think of that place, I think it is beyond everything. I read random collections of poetry. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days. The last time I was happy was only this morning. Because I listen, it is quiet around here, and dark because the light sees.

On the bus, I wrote you a text message. We climb mountains and sail on the outer shivering of the cities.

I could not phrase those sentences. And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances.

The city. There is something about places brim-full of traces of things that have happened. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.

The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. But my language was not hostile. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. Was the fresh foliage really on fire? The sentence that fell from your mouth just now. Take this morning, for instance: I sat alone in the sun.

It doesn’t matter.

The coal. The right-wing-nationalist sky. Do not seek God in my sentences: We are a collective. We are the delicate, the quiet.

It was your lips. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. The view was hopeless. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked.

The books sketched their own direction.

Like reading forgotten newspapers.

When I see you, see you, not. Up on the hill. Of other cities, other worlds. It’s just that… Grey. The pain sailing on streams of gold in dawn’s canopy of light. What do you count? The loneliness in the fall of the lines. The lights lighted.

Can I be in this landscape? When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. Darkness we just called darkness. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. And another day: A shy room, an intimate room. Can writing be shy? What shall we do with the violent sky? The books sketched their own direction. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things.