How long did you drift in the wind? The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. I read random collections of poetry. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds. The last time I was happy was only this morning. The focus, coming really close to the writing.

I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.

In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. Somewhere in there under the despair of the sand, someone finds a small sparkling, a small sparkling green. I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. I don’t disappear. In my first App, I awoke and placed a light in your smile.

If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze. In the lips and in the skin.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. You put it in my window, on my window sill. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. To transform this room into another.

Not forget the rivers in the ears.

When you say my name, my body answers.

I kissed a summer’s blush of dawn. What should be forgotten? It was your lips. What shall we do with the violent sky? Does that make sense? Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? From time to time you said some words I didn’t understand. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds.

In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. You say something about the sun. I try to understand this coincidence: Can I write like that? They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. Take this morning, for instance: It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes.

That we never really become a part of the world.

I have written you a map. I sat alone in the sun.

Who was it that wrote:

The mad sky. There was something that opened up. The trees. It is always this slow gaze. The trees. The trees. The trees. The trees. The trees. The trees.

The trees. The trees. The trees. The trees.

The trees. The trees. The trees. The trees. The trees.

The trees. The trees. The trees. The trees.

Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof.

I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences. I love to wake up and see you wake up. In the lips and in the skin. It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet).

The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. What do you count to?

It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips.

I found a line somewhere under my bookcase.

Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future. The books rested around the coffee. It was before you could disappear.

Not forget the rivers in the ears.

I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. Stuff like that. Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. And yet, was it the big systems I feared? The light followed me sharply, and I drew on the language dancing in the inner landscapes. I would like to give you all my diamonds.

My one pen is red and the other is black. Notes. Descriptions. All around I could only pull myself together to read a few random lines. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. That we never really become a part of the world. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. What shall we do with the violent sky? I flick through the pages of some random book.

Sentences are an ocean. Sentences are an ocean. Sentences are an ocean.