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Devote old days

One of the rituals of the city. Churches are here, faithfull, the ones we sometimes forget, when we do not step in. Or not anymore. And yet, in the heart of Rome, something gets repeated, daily. Tired heels drag one’s feet on the cobblestones to join convinced friends. The reassuring echo of the priest envelops the presents, nonchalance of canticles too. Singing along with friends. With whom we leave the church arm-in-arm, until the next mess.