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Steady HandsWhen Dinah woke up from a nightmare somewhere between late night and early morning, he couldn't decide whether or not he felt safe. There was no screaming or wailing, and no laughter that merited tying and buckling anyone's shirt sleeves together, but quiet carried a host of other potential problems.
Was he by himself?
Had he gone to bed that way?
Was he on a bed?
Reaching out a hesitant hand, he traced the contours of his bedding and felt his muscles slowly begin to relax, remembering to take in air again.
It was a couch, old and worn but comfy, somewhere that smelled like hearty soups and yarn and crayons. If he concentrated on the opposite wall, he could see the old marks from where someone had painted over a crude drawing just above the carpet.
A butterfly, if he could guess. He remembered drawing them over and over in a garden a long time ago.
Blinking against the sleepy soreness in his eyes, he shifted up onto an elbow, focusing on the window and the condensation on the gl
Augen AufThere were a number of staircases in the Carmine estate, each varying in size and style. Some curved and twisted while others rose smoothly to a determined end. Hidden away from the visiting public, a charming handful led the adventurous traveler to nowhere at all.
Those were the ones that the Queen preferredthe little accidents of architecture, perfect for playing hide and seek and useful for little else.
There had been a time where a simple trek had been enough to send her flattening herself against walls, pushing and grasping at her chest as if air could be conjured up and pushed through her needy system by manual effort and accusing glares at her beaming king.
"Now what are we here for?"
She would ask, but Bordeaux would shake his head.
"No reason, really. I just wanted to look at you where no one else could."
Lines that, she thought, were dirty rotten tricks, designed specially to keep her from strangling her unpredictable husband.
She told him so on
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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