The love everyone said was doomed

A spring evening in Venice and music drifts across St Mark’s Square. It is the love songs — sentimental, weepy — that lure me to Cafe Florian where I sit alone at a table, sip my drink and reflect. The music acts like a balm. I’ve escaped alone to Italy for a weekend break and finally begin to let go of the stresses of my life in London: the pressure of holding down a job that demands all my time and energy, the unremitting tedium of my daily commute and the growing sense that — despite everything I have materially — my life, at its core, is empty.

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