#andolini

𝚖𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚜 ,      𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑      staggering      lids      as he fails      to keep them     pried open ,      sober ,     as if      final stages      of      slumber      have      taken him over ,      and he’s already      sleep walking .      ❝     i’m tired    (  ...  )     ❞      plain      against      debilitation ,      albeit agitated ,      contending towards      another’s voice ,      as 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎       𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 ,      tapers off      𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 ,      begrudging       𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚛 .      ❝     m’ tired      of      listening      to you .      tired of doin’       what      you      say .     ❞

buccellati sits bundled in two layers more than usual, not yet inoculated against the october chill that permeates the rooftop patio. it's in the metal, he thinks, and in the waters too; he can see upper bay's dark waters glimmering in the autumn sun, and the city's thousand steel and concrete fingers stretching upwards towards the cloudless heavens, claustrophobic monoliths that trap the cold in their windy corridors. he shifts slightly left. recrossing his legs like this, he can remain quietly attentive of don corleone's expression without fighting the sun ricocheting off the windows directly behind him. the neutral frown on his lips is only split when he cuts a wedge of melon and prosciutto and places it carefully on his tongue to chew.

there's a sentiment behind the statement buccellati does not pry into out of respect. his intuition scratches for something bitter and maybe nostalgic, the kind of wisdom that can only come from an accumulation of mistakes— whether they're his or someone else's is where buccellati wills himself to stop, tucking that particular line of analysis away for a time when he can mull it over in full. his attention is the don's, now.

          he swallows down the salty and the sweet. "I ask myself, sometimes... does power change us, or does it make us more of who were were all along?"

buccellati holds his next words behind the cage of his habitually-stern expression, not hesitant, but testing their flavour before they fall off his tongue.

                              bathed            in           grandeur            hues            of            scarlet           melting           into            mauve ,            hosting            only            a            young            boy            parading            merrily            alongside            cobbled            walls :            the            corleone’s            yard            maintains            an            illusion            of            peace            better            than            ever            before           ━━            ALAS ,           DUSK             IS             IMMINENT          /           the            time            to            relish            in            such            light            was            fleeting .                ❝           anthony             drew             something             for             you .           ❞