Tempted by the sweet aroma of a ripe fruit, I continued to stroll through the endless long corridor.
The wind blew across the Arno river, over the river Tiber and through the Piazza del Popolo. The clear wind, as sharp as
a knife, was colder than the whirlwind that swayed the hem of my coat.
I run up the marble staircase while the vesper bells reverberate inside the Basilica de San Lorenzo. Since the 16th
century, the amount of people that have climbed up and down this staircase is uncountable. I am short of breath as I run
up moving past the mirages of steps worn down by the countless passersby, the swayed drapes of the dresses, the silk
socks, and the soft, sheep leather boots.
I received an invitation three days ago as I came out from the dim hall of the San Luigi dei Francesi to the main street in
the lingering glow of the evening sky.
A young woman came up to me as she saw me. She had a deep wrinkle between her eyebrows looking intense and
uptight. The whirlwind stroked the curly red hair, slightly touching the distorted pearl earrings.
She said nothing and handed me a white envelope. A dark red sealing wax that looked just like a blood blister clearly
indicated the letter <C>. I switched my focus back to see her eyes. It was obscure as the night lake, and she quickly
turned her back on me and left, leaving no trace like the whirlwind.
You are the servant of sin
If, three days from now, at 7pm sharp
You come by the Galleria degli Uffizi
I will be waiting for you in “the Red Room,” all the way in the back.
The invitation exuded a sweet aromatic scent. I put it inside my coat pocket and traveled to Firenze.
I traveled a long way, from Milan, Rome, Napoli, Marta, Sicily, back to Rome, then to Firenze following his footprints.
This wildest pursuit lead me to find out who you are, where and how far you are taking me.
I hurried myself to the wall farthest from the museum entrance. “The space is now closed.” says the gallery attendant.
“Hi Miss, are you listening? Come back please. You may not enter the exhibit space any longer.” I ran, despite the
restraint. Behind this wall is the Bacchus, waiting to be seen.
Swathed in grape vines over a thicket of black hair, his loosely white drape reveals a skin so soft and pearly radiant. He is
calm and smiling, offering a glass of wine that looks much like a puddle of blood. His glossy red cheeks have a magnetic
effect that is irresistible. Just like how our final destiny is determined, once it reaches a ripe old age, it decays.
So let us share this very moment.
Let us have no fear. We shall drink and have a feast. Let us wander and be idiotic.
Because this is the proof of being alive.


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