9:26PM. And, home. Been for several hours. Sipping my last SB glass. A ’12 I took home a couple days ago. 12 hours from now, I’ll be in that library. And after ‘100’, I’ve reasoned, I’ll be in some café on 4th street. Haven’t decided which. Still quite sore from yesterday’s track work, but I’ll put my Self out into streets for at least 40 minutes. I’m quite rattled by this white Bordeaux, but I’m keeping with my types. Researched flying today, while at work, on THEIR, dime. The control panels of a 172, 182, 210, and Bonanza types. But I need to read pilot memoirs, blogs, logs, shorts, vignettes.. anything I can find. Something about being at altitude, then reacting in writing, or just with thought, jolts me. A sip… The energy’s there, just with reservation. Everyone says ’12 is the vintage to watch. And I agree, to a point. But there’s obvious lack to the collective of its overall lecture. There could be more of a luminous pounce to this pour’s pull, but there won’t be. And that’s fine. In fact, it’s admirably vocal. That’s what distinguishes vintage, this vintage. I’m sipping, realizing that my time won’t always be. And that should be carried into tomorrow’s ‘5’ lecture.. how time carries us.. and we can resist, but it’s only to build character, our character(s). My future characters will seek their passion, their curiosities, regardless of cost, or sacrifice. The Art of Fiction, for me, involve the notion of a door: In, Out… Then back in.. later out… Revolution! At the Author’s bidding. C—— would think this SB’s a bit flat– coy. She would have put more oak on its control. Not so much as to mute the fruit, but to boast its body, vintage. “Who made this?” she’d ask.