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MiriamShe stares into space, hoping beyond hope to disappear into the wall. Maybe one day she could actually turn invisible. Maybe one day she would disappear. She watches him pass like she does every other day, and slowly turns red. The one time she wants to be seen - and he breezes past. Theres always tomorrow.
She hugs her books tightly to her chest. Yes, one day hell see me. He will realize I am pretty, even though no one else seems to know. He will come and say hi to me. We will instantly fall in love. She sighs. Every day is a different variation of this impossible fantasy. He will never see her. He will never care.
Another day. She walks into class, narrowly missing tripping over her own clumsy feet. So what if she was staring at him? She can still walk perfectly fine. She sits down, ungracefully, and attempts to concentrate on being sucked into the earth. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, gravity will become my friend. Maybe it will take me somewhere wh
The HopelessOh silly Pandora. You ruin everything.
But dont worry. I forgive you.
Cause for a moment, I felt hope. And it was wonderful.
Maybe for a second I thought that something might happen.
Maybe within a second it didnt.
Yes, they were always right.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope can be deadly if you let it get you.
But how can you not?
When all you want is to believe.
When all anyone wants is to believe.
Some will say the world needs hope.
But does it?
And you know what?
It doesnt always feel that great.
And yet, I could beg to differ.
When you feel hope, you feel air.
Yet you are air.
Everything is light and breezy.
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is wonderful.
Give it back.
I want my hope back.
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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