Stressful morning but now a calm starts. And in the calm I remember why I write, and why the characters of wine’s world interest me as they do. The sippers and the glasses, even washing them a certain way so no spots stubbornly stick. It’s all a wheel, a cumulonimbus of intentions and revised thesis.
Pinot from last night still circling, as it wants to of course. And I note, note, more note.
And as a writer with a trying A.M., more coffee’s not only considered but definitively decreed. So I start to pack and rush to bux– Where’s my wallet, I search and panic and the same morning still with me.