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City of Pompeii


A coastal city on the shore of the Mediterranean's gleaming,
turquoise and tempest waves, she is arguably much older than
Rome's fabled founders Romulus and Remus; far more steeped
in traditions that beat like a heart's torrid rhythm, pounding
out every step to a forbidden dance of desire.

She is Pompeii.
And she is an all-devouring Mistress.
Mother to all form of satyr and nymph,
where the wine flows free and the
Dance of Syrtos never ends.

--- excerpt ---

I met an Artist the other day while browsing the seedy shops and local flavor of the Marina Road on the waterfront of the Bay of Naples. He introduced himself to me as Svettio. He is, like most of his kind, a pauper, working for handouts and bits of coin. Yet he is unlike the others in that I sense in him a communal flame that burns by the fire of the Muses, and like me, he is driven.

I watched him for many hours, painting at his easel like a madman. Svettio wore no shirt, and his hair and chest were flecked with the multi oil colors of his palette. For a long time he paid me no mind, yet at some point the Artist became aware of me and graced me with a bit of coy flirtation.
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