Is there still life to be lived in six?
The problem in what goes back goes forth
As empty clubs lead us to lonely singers.
Italian would surely drift in at this point
If not earlier, if not the time of day
When the sun is slanting and the canals are aging
If not the weight of this life or its habits
Or the asymmetrical beneath all these symptoms.
It is the Great Uneven that brings me here
Again and again brings me to you
Leaving equations and details and derivative behind
Because before every road there was a path and before every path there was dust.
You have boots and I have boots, and we have the sun.
We’ll keep making sense just long enough.
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