I sailed around on the surface of everything.

You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. The books rested around the coffee.

And we awoke. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand.

It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police.

In every night remnants of meaning slid along with you. You, you.

It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. I drank the dry. The view was a fuck-up-store. Some light fires and turn into hesitant smoke, while others forever stiffen up and become like stone. We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans.

I hate to wake up and see you wake up. Sentences are a desert. Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert. I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). Your diamonds shine from my mouth. Where does ruined language want to go? My one pen is red and the other is black. The techno of the northern lights, you sing, is the foreign language. Was the wind really blowing? I could not phrase those sentences.

Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. Not forget the rivers in the ears. We thought about words we could not forget.

In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. Was there really a fire somewhere? Which night followed the night? The shadow followed the lights and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the light. Which night followed the night? Can writing be shy? Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night? Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night?

Which night followed the night?

I read random collections of poetry. You dragged me towards the distant mountains like that. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

Your diamonds shine from my mouth. I was in your body, and you? Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. In the fog, not quite being able to see the road, see the path. Here the day is already far ahead of me.

The sand in my thoughts. Did I sit alone? My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days. Out by the factories. I have written you a map. The northern lights hesitating in our voices.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. In the morning, darkness seems to move closer to my skin and there is an accident flickering inside my eyes.

When you say my name, my body answers. Your bones are also making sounds, and inside them a light being undulates and moves.

Sentences are an ocean. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. The cohesions in your lips, in your eyes and the brittle landscape, to reach all the way out there. Can writing be shy? I see stone, I see water, I see lumps of meat squirming in a light-light idyll. The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. 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.

It was not the fields I came from. I read your lines. It was after the trees, even after the movement of my fingers through light, through skin, through landscape after landscape. What should be forgotten?

Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity. Can I write like that? There is something about places filled with things that will happen.

Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes.

The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. Over the rubble. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. Every day we fire up the planets. Together we mapped the order of things lying down. Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists.

Notes. Descriptions. We are a conversation rising up behind the eyes. Do we have the same eyes? I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. The lime. Coloured the words gentle. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. For every layer of meaning in the stones.

By the outermost shores you had found a small, green stone.