The Renaissance men are aging now, having survived Industrialization's Original Sin and the Information Age flood; The need for specialization drives wrinkles of obsolescence through their shriveling faces that have seen too much popular culture, folk wisdom, colloquialisms, and fads born of boredom to have much patience left for the exaltation of yet another generation of humanity so frustratingly changing, yet flawed as we've always been.
I've given up on love, it's a game I've never figured out all the rules, and I'm getting too old to be any good at playing it anyway: "That cranky old man, who'd put up with someone like that?" I hear them say way too clear, though I've gotten good at normally ignoring what I don't want to hear.
I'd thought of holding you in my arms while you'd tell me of the cracks in your pavement, the ones that were flowing together today, and the ones you'd worry would become chasms, the ones that could drive us apart, both of us in love with the persons we imagined us to be, neither of us realizing then, that living's...just walking, the cracks coming and going under your feet and all you can do is keep walking, and sometimes there's music coming from places you pass, but never look up to see.
The Renaissance man from upstairs has packed up now, he's got his "I'm Done" look draped over his shoulder against the cold, he's out on the curb; the New kids have come out to play on the cracks of the sidewalk, and from the next block the encroaching ice-cream van crawls, bringing music.