and thinking of a nymph or a muse to grace the whole existence of his life and thus make him happy and glorious, from thence and forever.
Lucio was one of those who painted brilliant lives on the nice canvas of memory, and one of those who wanted to make true at the same time what he sketched on canvas as well as in words. At heart he was romantic, but in soul he was ambitious. For he thought of life, even when as a child, seriously, for ever since he knew the value of time, he kept on pegging day in and day out in reading whatever book came into his hands, and thus at this time of writing he had been able to gather alot of invaluable knowledge—science, art, and literature.
Sometimes he was only fond of philosophizing and his mind was full of lovely things, yet he did not wonder why he did not see those in real life even though he so often saw them in print. Yes, for he very well knew that sometimes there appeared the irony of fate.
That same night he went over to see his father working in their small farm. He told him that he was only desirous of accompanying his friend for an indefinite length of time in spending and enjoying his vacation days in a certain town nearby, about two hours of carromata riding.
The father, who was kind and obliging, consented and added that he hoped he would make the most of it, for he was looking up to him for everything sometime in later life a he was then fast growing old.
