Somewhere, a woman remembered a skyscraper. Occasionally, the landscape is lonely for another landscape. But there is no other landscape for the landscape to encounter. So the loneliness moves onto her lips. A landscape never changes and has no plans to do so.
Lips indulge in houses.
The woman becomes a door. A landscape cannot make a name for itself. A landscape believes in stone but does not seek it out. A woman illuminates a landscape with her lips. Her lips know no secrets.