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Your Last Day on EarthA summer rain is always like this; a light drizzle accompanied by an enchanting tune due to the cold drops hitting the surface of the world, not to forget the addicting smell of wet grass and rain-soaked earth filling the air.
A transparent vinyl umbrella he held lightly on his hand, but to open it he can't find the need to; to block the waterway to his face would break the mood induced around him, anyway. He bared his face forward to the ever changing skies. Cloudy and gray as it is now, he felt inside him a love for it doesn't change even a tiny bit.
Someone said, when you see the vast blue skies, you can always feel the urge for an adventure.
He ran a long run towards a path near a fountain inside the park, a breathtaking one to empty his now wrinkled lungs in a few minutes. He threw himself with his last ounce of strength to the soft, grassy ground, resulting in his clothes to be dirty all over. He rolled his body to positions his eyes to face a pale facade of the scenery of
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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