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2. Marscats attatck and Agens save
Chapter Two Marscats attatck and Agens save
Quince stood silently, as he often did, at the end of the long hall. To the left was a wall, to the right was the sliding door to his father's room. But the boy prince wasn't practically interested in waking up the old man so early. The child woke early and slept little like a Fay. It was just dawn, the beginning of a new day cycle. He always meant to run downstairs and invent some breakfast that might stump the cook. But often, on a fairly regular basis, he more often found himself sneaking the other way, opposite from the stairs, to stand here. Here, right here, facing the dead end. Facing his mother.
It was a portrait, a photograph of her with father, enlarged to cover most of the wall. She looked happy. She was always happy. And Quince would smile back. The boy had never known her or heard her voice. But he derived immense comfort from communing with the image; a frozen frame in time.
Today a sliding door opened
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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