Together we mapped the order of things lying down. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. And down through the skin to the bones, glittering-glittering, and through the bones until darkness merges with marrow. Something opened up. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. The sentences are an ocean. In the morning I sit there, slowly, reading about sand, about the sand, the movements of the sand across itself.

Like writing in code. The cloud hid something from the birds. The focus, coming really close to the writing. I love to wake up and see you wake up. But my language was not hostile.

In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth.

Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. The shyness in writing.

We thought about words we could not forget. I am on the other side of the sea. And we awoke. From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths.

In every day, your hands gently ran through my hair.

Call me without reason. The cloud hid something from the birds.

Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? Notebook. Under fire. Suddenly one day, giraffes fell from your eyes. In the lips and in the skin. Two shirts hung up to dry in the room, one is crumpled, the other refuses to be straightened out. You must not disappear. Grey.

Resisted, but did nothing.

In there behind the forest.

We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence. When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. It doesn’t matter. Can I write that? Intimacy, writing. Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? Who was it that wrote: When I think of that place, I think wowowow in a vague crossing of everything before everything.

Was the wind really blowing? We have neither curtains nor tight schedules.

I get the day going, writing quietly. The scratches. In the images, my language had become hostile: You put it in my window, on my window sill. In the night we write new books, and for every time we breathe in, others breathe out. I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. When I wake up and see you open your eyes. Like reading forgotten newspapers. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.

A shy room, an intimate room. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. The words, small tops of foam.

Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. The lights lighted. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey. One morning, a piece of the sky. Darkness and light are languages unto themselves _ go with the flow! Desertion. Assertion.

I could feel your heart beat against my dick.

It is like that. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit.

But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared.

The scratches. Impossible to get in there. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. Together we mapped the order of things lying down. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.

I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. The To

In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. When you say my name, my body answers.

Was I quiet? To transform this room into another. In the morning I sit there, slowly, reading about sand, about the sand, the movements of the sand across itself. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. You put it in my window, on my window sill.