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BitterSweet:ChapterOneThe village was unusually quiet on this clear spring evening. The sun was up and there wasnt a cloud in the sky. But where was everyone? If you walked a little further in, you would have reached a house, or maybe you would call it a shack. But that doesnt matter. It looked like all the other homes in the village: small, with wood walls and hay for the roof. Surrounding the little shack was a group of people. Angry people. Now, they were your everyday angry villagers. No, they didnt have pitches forks with them, they were more civilized then that. They were just shouting.
Kill it! It isnt human! a short, plump man with hardly any hair shouted as many others agreed. It doesnt fit with our way of life! a women shouted, her grey hair tied in a bun. The door of the shack opened and standing there was a short woman around 60 years old. She wore a light pink dress with a dirty apron, her dar
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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