But my language was not hostile.

The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. Nothing is deeper than the skin?

On a window pane. Sun storm. Which night followed the night? I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. When I read a boring poem, I read a boring poem and it struck me: The summer was quite all right after all, autumn and winter.

In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. Can I write like that?

Write me into your lips. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. You say something about the sun.

I had not yet met you. Sentences are an ocean. You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body.

I love to wake up and see you wake up. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. 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.

Ord. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details.

The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit.

The northern lights quivering in your voice. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit.

The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit.

In the darkness, diamonds, your eyes. Notes. Descriptions. This is not a game.

The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste. I lay there listening to your heart.

A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts.

Something opened up. I have written you a map.

Here the day is already far ahead of me.

Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert. I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Here the day is already far ahead of me. Like sitting on the palm of your hand watching your uvula break the horizon.

Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. For every layer of meaning in the stones.

Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. Who was it that wrote: This is what my dreams looked like at the time. The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind.

Your diamonds shine from my mouth. A shy room, an intimate room.

Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

And another day:

Then someone tried his hand at literary debate.

I kissed a winter’s darkness of night. Behind the trees. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Sentences are a desert. It is every single street view filled with our arms and legs. I had fallen: a spotted sleep, a deep melancholy through the sorrow of the landscape. I love to wake up and see you wake up. In the images, I saw enemies and birds and blank papers and rain.

The pain sailing on streams of gold in dawn’s canopy of light.

Nothing but the books. I read newspapers, in oblivion. Glass hands. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. The wall around the words. You wanted to say something, you kept silent. Days. Weeks. Friends. The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste. In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. You lost the thread, but come follow my wet crystals. When I woke up, I was certain: It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. I get the day going, writing quietly.