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Obstacles ch2Living with Snake wasn't as bad as Gemini thought at first. The green-haired man didn't take much space to live: he mostly lived on the couch, sometimes in the fridge (not literally) and in the toilet.
First few days with him were very unnerving though, being not very trustful, Gemini expected him to crawl in his room with a knife or a gun at night, but he had never tried to cause any harm, Snake did swear a lot, though.
So, living next to Snake wasn't bad at all, they didn't have any problems or so Gemini thought, well, that was until Gemini cooked a first meal for the two; they had to eat fast food for first two days, too preoccupied to cook. Snake was right-handed and thanks to his injury he couldn't move his right hand without it bringing considerable amounts of pain and it seemed like he couldn't hold the chopsticks normally with his left hand.
"No seriously, I can't do that," Snake finally uttered after, like, ten minutes of fighting with chopsticks, frowning in defeat, "I'll die
Obstacles ch1It was an ordinary morning, huge rows of people moved on the streets, some of them were going to work; some of them were just… going. The only thing that could catch someone's eye was certain man, who was breaking the atmosphere of coordination and calmness of the street. He was moving in the current of people, like trying to avoid being touched as he pressed his arms as close as possible to his body to avoid the contact with other people, not like it was possible anyway.
The man himself wasn't anything to catch much attention, he wasn't too tall, he wore a suit, like many people did, the only thing that made him different him was his hair. He had absolutely white hair, and it wasn't painted or anything. He was proud, he had been told it was rare to have this, all people in his family had always been dark-haired and he was the only one of his kind. The hair was the thing other people had always recognized aside of two scars on his face. He wasn't the last person in Osaka, and mo
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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