Your good looks will be gone someday. It might be on a Monday, you look in the mirror, your eyes are pulling down, your lips just slits on your face, you cheeks puffy as a gorilla on feeding day. And you feel sorry. Sorry for those times you drugged yourself like a beached whale, sorry for the tenderness, and all those silly faces you vowed to see again, and you didn't. You wished you saw them with your good looks. But now you destined for basements, and nighttime and piano music. You need much to stay breathing. To stay loving is another matter all together. It's a time that comes upon us; we'll know it's time to leave. I'll say I'm going to France, and you to Canada. There's a language there; there it's calm.
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