A few jump out windows, or drown them selves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devouredby some disease, or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself.
There's just this for the consolation : an hour here or there when our lives seem againts all odd and expectation, to burst open and give us everyhing we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. still we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything for more.
Heaven only knows why we love its so.
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