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Conductor!America x ReaderConductor!America x Reader
You stretched as much as you could in your seat near the back of the capacious hall. Your joints were aching from staying still for so long. You usually didn’t mind it for school, but today was different.
You were attending a choral workshop with a few other classmates. You were pleased that you had gotten to go, as only a select few out of each choir was allowed to come. You had only signed up to miss two days of school, but by sheer dumb luck, you had been chosen. Your choir teacher didn’t hate you, after all.
You were sitting in your section with another girl from your school, who was currently whispering about a tenor across the room.
“There is nothing I adore more than boys singing in harmony,” said your friend, Elizabeta, “and I hope that guy will harmonise well with me. Do you think I could get him to sing a few bars of Peter Bjorn with me?”
“I don’t think so. And you can’t just ask boys
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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