Ocean June 20, 2014 1:09:14 PM – 1:12:16 PM

A shy room, an intimate room. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. You answered like that. Everything is behind everything. Darkness we just called darkness. The rain, the wind between the leaves of trees, your lips, your lips, your lips. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane.

On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane.

On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane. On a window pane.

On a window pane.

On a window pane. On a window pane.

Ocean June 20, 2014 12:02:11 PM – 12:03:58 PM

Sentences are an ocean. A shy room, an intimate room. Call me without reason. The northern lights hesitating in our voices.

Not the rivers in the ears. What should be forgotten? The eyes barely touching the pages.

It was the forests. The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs. We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence.

Landscape June 20, 2014 11:32:43 AM – 11:35:49 AM

In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me.

The air and the songs of the Earth.

Can I write like that? You say something about the sun. The fire. You put it in my window, on my window sill. Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police.

Conversation June 20, 2014 10:50:28 AM – 10:53:12 AM

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.

Landscape June 20, 2014 10:48:55 AM – 10:50:24 AM

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.

Conversation June 20, 2014 10:20:04 AM – 10:21:22 AM

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.

Landscape June 20, 2014 10:08:01 AM – 10:10:19 AM

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.

Conversation June 20, 2014 10:03:27 AM – 10:05:10 AM

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.

Conversation June 20, 2014 9:56:58 AM – 9:58:51 AM

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.