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Reverend Death - Page 1The sound of blood dripping as it hit the floor was the only noise you could hear.
My first test subject was almost dead by this time, I stood there holding his jelly like eye ball in the palm of my hand. It was still warm from being in the socket, but it didn't look like an eye now all alone swimming in the red pool that had formed in my hand.
I wondered if all detached parts of the body would look so strange, not fitting right in its new reality of loneliness.
I laid the eye down on the table next to my scalpel and thought what I would create with it.
The table was almost clinical looking with the bright white glare of the over hung light reflecting on the stainless steel, giving the room a feeling of no emotion unlike most rooms tend to create.
I turned back to stand over the subject looking down with my mind full of unanswered questions, mostly thinking how UN real he looked on the bench.
Lying perfectly still he almost looked like a albino so white from the soak in the
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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