At the Address of the Invisible

: What are you doing here?
: I thought I'd just see you once and leave; but now I can't. Tell me, do I trouble you terribly?
: Trouble? (laughing) Are you speaking of trouble? Should I take this as some kind of farce?
: Nothing touches me anymore; why won't you understand?
: When did we last meet? I can't remember. How do you know this path? And how did you find out I was here—this address, this news?
: This position of mine, above all feeling—how did you manage to find it?
: Go away. You cannot stay here. It will hurt you deeply.
: I don't want to see you in pain.

: Are you telling the truth? Do you still think of me?
: I ask for no claims of feeling; I know you cannot love, cannot hurt, cannot hate, cannot bind with grievance or complaint.
: Yet it's all right—I've only come to fill my eyes with the sight of you for a while. Don't say no.
: Why shouldn't I be able to find your address? That was something only I was meant to know.

: That intensity of your love, which only drowned me in remorse—can you explain it?
: Did you too fear losing me?
: No... I feared falling in love with you a little more than myself, every passing moment.
: You are terribly different.
: And you... far stranger than I am.

: Did I ask too much of you?
: Why did you free yourself from expectation, keeping everything unknown from me, leaving it all in chaos?
: You felt so deeply my own. And then that narrow sense of my own breaking apart.
: I knew you better than I knew myself. Because you love me!

: Having vanished like that, in what sorrow have you enclosed time itself—then why did you give me the address to all your paths?
: Tell me, by what dear name shall I call you?

: Will you stay then?
: I never really left.