The intimacy in writing. When you say my name, my body answers. What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. The sand. The air and the songs of the Earth. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.