1500 May 05 – Vatican City

Today was an unexpected shift in pace. I found myself in the heart of Rome, walking the corridors of what felt like the world's grandest open gallery. As fate would have it, I crossed paths with none other than Raphael. Yes, the famed artist, not some distant noble. His reputation as a genius seemed almost understated once we began talking. His mind—like a boundless sea of ideas—flowed with ease.

We wandered through the streets, discussing art, beauty, and the nature of the universe itself. His thoughts were profound, yet he had a humor about him, keeping things light even when speaking of the heavens. I, in turn, shared my own musings, though much of it veered toward my fascination with flight—something I couldn’t help but mention every chance I got.

The conversation, however, took an unexpected turn. We found ourselves passionately debating the virtues of the humble bread and cheese that the locals call focaccia. Raphael, ever the purist, insisted that simplicity was best—fine olive oil and herbs. I, however, championed the addition of rich toppings, suggesting that life’s canvas, much like art, is better when filled with variety.

By the end of our little discourse, we settled for a humble picnic in the open air. While Raphael remained unconvinced of my love for overly adorned focaccia, I sensed I’d planted the seed of curiosity. We parted ways with mutual respect, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit wiser—or perhaps it was just the bread settling in.

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