Your arm in mine, I've descended a million stairs at least. And now that you're not here, a void yawns at every step. Even so our long journey was brief. I'm still en route, with no further need of reservations, connections, ruses, the constant contempt of thos who think reality is what one sees. I've descended millions of stairs giving you my arm, not of course because four eyes see better. I went downstairs with you because I knew the only real eyes, however darkened, belonged to you. E. Montale

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