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This is the Death of MeThe hunger within that claws the cage that is my stomach. Cage the beast. Make
it angry. Play Pandora. Back to the beginning, repeat step one.
Deadly repetition never ends. Misery becomes my saturation. Drink the wine of
lust and pretend its love. Close my eyes and believe. It's all good.
This leaves an empty place inside, one that only you can fill. But who are you and
why do I feel the need to swim the ocean for you?
Compulsions drive my actions, gives me no control to this story's end. The quill in
Bloodlines - ProloguePrologue
Beams of light reflected across the old ruins. Minuscule particles embedded the weathered stones, causing the stones to have a shimmered glow of a thousand colors. Many years of elemental exposure had reduced towering columns to mere stumps, grand walls to waist high inconveniences. Age had allowed the forest to overcome the ruins. Great oaks had torn apart the stone with immense root systems and brush had cluttered the grounds. Peace that only time could bring whispered through the ruins, mixed with the slightest hint of sorrow.
A young boy, not a day over eleven, hid behind a larger section of the ruined walls. Back pressed against the crumbling stone, the boy sat motionless with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Long, deep, breaths escaped his lips, leaving no trace of sound. His dark blue eyes stared intensely at the bush that tucked him against the old wall segment.
At the boy
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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