At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
But you know, as I do, that the storm will passAnd that the implacable sun doesn't simply stopWhen obscured by a dark, pernicious cloud,Which is why I know I'll return to your house-On a Sunday that's there on the calendar-And laugh with you over a glass of grappa.
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But you know, as I do, that the storm will passAnd that the implacable sun doesn't simply stopWhen obscured by a dark, pernicious cloud,Which is why I know I'll return to your house-On a Sunday that's there on the calendar-And laugh with you over a glass of grappa.
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