I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. Grey.
The books rested around the coffee.
The cloud hid something from the birds. This is how you answered. We thought of contexts of natural phenomena: The quivering of northern lights in your voice; glittering secrets inside the stones, inside the Earth, inside each other. Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun.
A shy room, an intimate room. I could not forget what should be forgotten. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences. And we awoke. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important. Did I drag the outermost? The techno of the northern lights, you sing, is the foreign language. The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book.
When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness.
I could not phrase those sentences.
We thought of contexts of natural phenomena: The quivering of northern lights in your voice; glittering secrets inside the stones, inside the Earth, inside each other. The lights lighted.
Star continent. Incomprehensible sentences to dress up in. The air and the songs of the Earth. It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. We thought about words we could not forget.
Parts of your reality slid in between my lips. Afterwards I spent hours reading. Was the wind really blowing? I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling a precious stone resembling a glittering from the depths of the earth. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey. I wrote myself into a frenzy back then.
Sentences are an ocean. I’ve stalled on the threshold of the day. Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert.
The sentence that fell from your mouth just now. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me see through your eyes.
It doesn’t matter. I found a line somewhere under my bookcase. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan.
The words, acid scratches of blood. The glittering secrets inside the stones.
When I woke up, I was certain: Like sitting on the palm of your hand watching your uvula break the horizon. Now my visions drift off at a tangent along the fierce, fierce light of the keyboard. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.
Because I listen, it is quiet around here, and dark because the light sees. When I think of that place, I think it is beyond everything. From the greatest lines we find, every night – in the dark darkness that is dark – our way into the most insignificant scientific truths. In every day, your hands gently ran through my hair. The table wobbles. When I woke up, I was certain:
The light followed me sharply, and I drew on the language dancing in the inner landscapes. You wrote no further.
Someone has turned his sweater inside out. Where does ruined language want to go? Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. Blue.
I love to wake up and see you wake up. The intimacy in writing.
Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips.
I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body.
I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains?
Days. Weeks. One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. We, behind the eyes. The trees. I wrote nothing down in that period.
Stuff like that.
The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.