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Diary -- 14 July 2012Saturday, 14th July 2012.
Yesterday evening, I read my "old" poems, those I wrote six, seven months ago. I saw there, in whole blue letters, our splitting apart. I sensed it somehow, from time to time, since the beginning. The first "evidence" of that realization is the first page of another notebook, which I think (I hope?) rests henceforth somewhere in what was our appartment. I was almost accepting, resigned -- almost -- at least I had already traversed alone much of the pain of abandonment. I fought, but there was nothing to do: her feelings weren't there and she simply didn't want to have any for me.
I could have understood this breakup, or at least get over it, keeping close the person who still was the best friend I had, opening my eyes on the mistakes and re-building myself in a hopefully better way. I was willing to bear the whole responsibility in the failure of our couple and to take, even if it wasn't for her anymore, the appropriate measures. I was willing to list
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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