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V For VenganceThe crowd cheered.
The always cheered for her.
"It's been twenty-six years, almost three decades!
A whole generation has come and gone since the bombs dropped...
...but we still stand strong!"
The mob of ignorance was at full bloom now;
people had flocked to the stadium to hear her speak...
...to be fed lies, to be filled with what they wanted to hear:
but not what needed to be heard.
Did she forget the blood she had shed?
The countless lives she'd trampled upon to get to her 'pillar'?
To them, the people, she was a saviour. A hero.
...to those who knew her? To those who loved her?
She... she was a villain.
Pure born and bred evil.
Sometimes I wondered:
How did this happen?
What had become of the woman I had spent my entire life with?
Where was her sense of good... her compassion?
What foul curse had killed any sense of morality within her?
I lifted the rifle up and perched the
Self AssociationThis was what I wanted
all along, you see:
Not to be crowned to some godly status,
upon a throne of dried tears and jealous glances.
Just to have a seat in the court,
was what I'd wished for.
To dip my toes into the icy depths;
enough to send chills up my skin,
yet not enough to freeze the soul.
A bitter cold.
But a short-lived chill, at that.
Sure, there are other martyrs
far beyond my mortal foothold.
But I will not stand by them
Perhaps more or less by reasoning of personal judgement;
but amusing is in that of a clear view
of their assumed and timely downfall.
Fads, one-hit wonders.
There's so many of you...
...and you're all ticking time-bombs.
Every passing second feeds you pleasure,
but in the end makes the fall hurt that much more.
I am no god.
I am not a hero or a leader-figure.
A neutral and modest pedestal is where I partake my refuge,
not in the realm of failure; not in the realm of success
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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