I wrote a sentence on your skin to help you see through my eyes. Under the blue, blue sky. On a window pane. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey. And that sky; was a crazy night. It is never the fast gaze.

Of all the shining, reflecting, dull. When I wrote your name in the light, a moonbeam fell through my window. The mind of the sun. The trees.

The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police. Glass hands. Where does ruined language want to go? A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The intimacy in writing. For every layer of meaning in the stones. The fire.

Our land. Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof. I think you had forgotten that one. I lay there listening to your heart. Incomprehensible sentences to dress in.

I sailed around on the surface of everything. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls.

The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. Grey. And we awoke.

Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. Together we mapped the order of things lying down. I think you had forgotten that one. What shall we do with the violent sky? I drew black squares on your skin to make sure everything was real.

Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind.

The cloud hid something from the birds. We are a conversation rising up behind the eyes. My one pen is red and the other is black. The seagulls in the streaming water and up on the sky.

By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.

The seagulls in the streaming water and up on the sky. The northern lights quivering in your voice.

Impossible to get in there.

On a window pane. Everything behind everything. Here the day is already far ahead of me. Letter in April. Were these lines really real?

Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand.

It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. To speak was too much. Take this morning, for instance: Which night followed the night? Of other cities, other worlds.

Were these lines really real?

Sentences whispered through the laundry and dropped a few caresses on my skin. The most important.

The plain turns into darkness and stone. The lime.

It was before you could disappear. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Figs above the view. You can be in this landscape.

In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep.

I was in your body, and you? I could feel your heart beat against my dick.

It was not the forests I came from.

This is not a game. Everything behind everything. 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. Something opened up. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences.

The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book.

Sentences are an ocean.

I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. I sat alone in the sun. Like another day where that was impossible.

It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet).