Standing on the piazzale Michelangelo on a painterly grey afternoon, I see an oxidized green dome not quite towering above the rest, just being “present”. I wonder about its construction, for it isn’t a Russian onion dome and it isn’t a Brunelleschi-shaped cupola, yet there is a statement of humility to it, but a statement nonetheless. I wonder what could possibly be beneath that dome: what great work of art, which artist’s tomb, what time-traveling historical wizardry could exist therein? I keep on wondering as I drive home, making a point that one day I must find the base of that dome—and visit.
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