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My Story: I'm a Whore Anyone unfortunate enough to know me, knows what I'm talking about. I've rambled and ranted about it on the internets for years. You see, I sold my soul in hopes of making my little dream a reality. Since I ditched the college of liberal arts after 90 something hours toward a degree in English Education, I've dreamed of living a sustainable existence off the grid on a self sufficient small farm that would double as an educational destination for the occasional "school trip".
After a drunk act of stupidity wrecked a small tree trimming business I was just getting off the ground in the metro, I moved back to the county where I was born and raised. All the years I spent in "the city" combined with some college education caused me to be viewed with suspicion by those I'd left behind when I went off to OKC. I found work as a construction contractor and began r
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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