The soot of morning mixing with the night. A rushing train smarts from the summer-burnt fields. Pumpkins are lying filled with peace underneath the sun, reddening on the horizon. As inconstant angels we are having a talk under the arcades in the blue car with an open roof. A light breeze is forcing the cream of clouds through our fingers. When we lie on the hard bed of argument, the stars are stepping over us. The night shakes its dark mane under the arcades and hits the road. On the run, I am eating the little stone apples from the facades in Ljubljana and the wind is blowing angel`s tears away as though they were sand, sending them to be sold in the supermarkets. The hum of the sea around your naked waist, which only half-gives itself to an embrace – be it a letter. The pumpkins are lying in the field, the summer has left its fruits on the quiet tablecloths, hid the timid pits into the fleshy armour of time. The sun with its bare hand touches the forest, the train for an instant tilts to the side, off the rails.