And yet, was it the big systems I feared?

Days. Weeks.

While I read your sentences, you wrote further into yourself. Birds flapping in the clinking of the diode night. Nothing is deeper than the skin? The lime. Sand eyes. The techno of the northern lights, you sing, is the foreign language.

The chair wobbles.

Were these lines really real?

It doesn’t matter. The sentence that fell from your mouth just now. There was a whirling in the air and colours shimmered off the walls. I read a line of sun: I walk on sun, I know nothing but sun. The mind of the sun. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.

I write in the night, in the moist seriousness.

Was I? Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds. I wrote nothing down in that period. The coffee is cold in the cold window, I am not going to drink it, it is cold.

I have written you a map.

In the first night, I could not settle down, the body that was absent next to me, the silence.

The ideal, said the decaying walls with contempt, is not necessarily cohesion and pop. The silicon. The mind of the sun.

Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. In every night remnants of meaning slid along with you. The intimacy in writing.

The intimacy in writing. A dark being oozes from my mouth and seems quiet. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things.

Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. Afterwards I spent hours reading. My one pen is red and the other is black. The fields, you? The worried one is beside itself. Notebook. Under fire. I could feel the fragile truth. The city. Like the palm of a hand without flesh; light and shadow falling through it. Now I am writing again on the quiet. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. On the bridge across the lakes I sat and I saw the seagulls, the pigeons, the swans dancing in the wind.

Something opened up.

The Town of Aved�re, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. Figs above the view. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. We have the same eyes. Where does ruined language want to go? In the lips and in the skin. Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. Not seek shelter.

Not seek shelter. Not seek shelter. Not seek shelter. Not seek shelter.

Not seek shelter.

As I lay there and listened, I became afraid of losing you. Your sentences. In mountain ranges across creased sheets?

When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. I was in your body, and you?

Nothing is deeper than the skin? We stood there and listened. I think you had forgotten that one. I didn’t give a damn about my own systems, everything was an approach, everything was affectionate.

The most important. Your diamonds shine in my mouth. A shy room, an intimate room. The third is beside. This slow gaze against the stones. We stood there and listened. I no longer have room for the fine hairs on my skin. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me see through your eyes.

This coincidence: Do we have the same eyes? If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze. From the smallest details we find, every morning � in the shining light that is bright � our way into the most important scientific truths. It was the forests.

It is like that. I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. Everything behind everything. We, old thoughts of silence. It was not the forests I came from.

The intimacy in writing. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes.

Your sentences.

Ord. Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof. Nothing should be forgotten. But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls.

Not forget the rivers in the ears. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. Not forget the rivers in the ears. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes.

Not forget the rivers in the ears. Not forget the rivers in the ears.