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Gain I knew the child that was a wise old man, and who held the name Asriene. That year, like all others, I fled from town to town, slinking away with treasures swiped by sticky hands. Ri, was just another foolish victim.
He was in the street with a cape the color of a spring river drawn over his shoulders. He came to me and poured down his kindness willingly, offering me a home. I entered the home, and eyed the small cabin with distaste. It held no silver, nor did it hold gold. This boy lived in a small bare cabin As I drew up the woolen covers that night a gleam set off my insatiable curiosity and I found myself kneeling before a large wooden chest. I cackled ravenously in anticipation and fumbled with the rusty latch. I threw back the lid to find what I had been searching for all along. "Jewels!" I thrust my hands into the chest, scooping out handfuls and dumping them into my pocket
Prsp. fragment pt 1 editProsper pulled himself up onto his feet, peering over the wall that hid veiled refuge. He bit down on his lip to keep himself contained. Even now, safely hidden, he could feel his veins begin to swell in fear. Prosper closed his eyes, hoping to still his imprudent shaking. 'C'mon Prosper-get a hold of yourself!' He tried to fight back the feeling of uneasiness but even though Nickademous was sure that they wouldn't be seen from this spot he knew they were still far from safe. 'That is,' he though halfheartedly, 'if it even exists.' He opened his eyes slowly, and felt as if they weren't his own. These eyes felt raw, bare.
He shuttered as he watched the soldiers- clad in their dark uniforms and heavy equipment-separate in to different sections of the city with large casks strapped onto their backs. His hands, which rested heavily on top of the old stone wall, began to shake. Slowly he drew his fingers in scraping gra
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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