Because I can. Because wine is alive. Because it narrates. IT told me to. Because I have to. This Pinot reminds me of my purpose. A ’12, so bold; convincing and with Gothic liaison, flirtatious fanged conviction. The wine is wild so I write about it like a wild prose churning machine— atop the keys with wine’s emboldenment; my liquified and fermented ally. Notes changing with atmosphere touch, connection to the same elements as this writer. Of wine. The cubist pen movements promoted by what some maker put to barrel, then to bottle— for me— intrinsic intimate immediacy, for wine and its wildness, its world, its written and sippable whim.