Hen stood in front of his cottage in his pink shirt and Cuban pointy shoes, and from afar I saw him wringing out the lettuce in a cloth on the troittoir. Hen called far across the Austrasse: Maaaaaariooon! Also a bit oracular. And then we sat down in this garden, who might have been shabby, but therefore golden. The sofa wobbled and the Zulg rustled up to us evenly. It was getting dark, the mountains grew dark. For me it was clear, that I would not spend my life there. I had the fantastic idea deep in the back of my mind, I still have to become something, I have to get around somehow. I became more melancholic every day, because I didn't understand the departure, where it was nowhere as beautiful as here, this summer with Hen. Lo and behold: this is my memory, or less than that, i wish i had more of this, to be able to hold me in this magical year at the end of school and before life, that never really began. Wasn't everything later and before a kind of one-way street?? And only the exit road was an island in between. I have been there.