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Middle groundDon't become part of the machine,
Don't live your life for them,
Don't be adequate, you have the power to do better.
The machine of society?
How do I escape that?
There's no escape, everyone is tailor made to play their part.
The only escape is to live the dream.
Live my life for whom?
My parents, my leaders?
Religious or political?
I follow no religion, most politics are lies.
From these things to most problems stem.
What do you mean adequate?
Your standards, or mine?
How can I do better, when there is no target set?
I simply can't, there's just no way.
Forget it all, I'll just give in and follow your advice to the letter.
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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