When you leave there may be a link with the meaning "back", though youth without death is a kind of sin that defends us against leaving too often and what more can I say when "back" is just a menacing "forward" undetached from the flesh of memories.

I'll be here and my hand is just a masked address, my each and every thought - a folder with as many rays as should be to embrace la lingua franca of the other lights that are coming to call me; I, writing how I am passed over by the walls of an eternal berlin, I am bursting open towards you hic sunt leones, mouths call to me from the edges of worlds mouths gaping with fear and I am ulysses with sealed ears not even the mermaids have still a body, songs or sea I am a part and all are within me as outside you are and the piece, that link to return to so as to go

and I have never left.