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Hard and SoftIve no reason to believe that the sun will rise tomorrow. Unless I see, I cant believe. The man studied her as she said this. By all poetic right, such words should have been uttered on some sharp, jutting cliff that tumbled dramatically to the sea, a sunset bathing them in red-gold hues, the California coastline stretching out below them, the crash of waves distance nearly silencing them, accenting the preternatural quiet of such a fateful, action-adventure movie script sunset. But really they were just as likely to be said across a crowded dinner table in some charming suburban home or through miles of cable on AIM at midnight.
Believe what? He sighed, thinking this was just another opening for some half-baked philosophy. She thought of how many ways that phrase, any phrase can be uttered. Whispered sweetly, intimately in curve of the ear of a dying friend or with a dash of bitterness and spite to an ex-love. As seen on TV shouted from a podium to
Free TradeThere is a man in front of the Disney store in Times Square and he shouting to the heavens and the crowds. Listen: Brothers and Sisters there is evil behind me in the form of the Disney store. There is evil all around us, in Starbucks and Wal-Marts. Now let us go in to the Disney store and free the people trapped with, and exorcize the money from those demon cash registers And so this preacher man and his followers enter the store singing and chanting. What is that all about? That man, Bill Talen, more commonly called Reverend Billy and those behind him, the Church of Stop Shopping, are working against consumerism, and free trade.
So, one is increasingly forced to ask is free trade bad? More importantly bad for whom? If it is as nefarious as they say, are there any solutions? Who live and dies this system of consumption? Who suffers, has their future sold off to the highest bidder, or the one with the biggest guns? Why is what is purchased becoming so politicized
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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