Wine doesn’t let me stop thinking about it.  It tells me to tell myself something, encourage self to do something more.  It assures me that the Road is closer than I think.  Tasted wines earlier, wines I’ve tasted before.  But before it was different for some reason.  Wine isn’t my life or just in my life– it’s a parochial presence.  Actuating my speak and mood layers.  The first time I went tasting I didn’t want to talk.  Now all I do is speak, writing my bottled musings.  Older, I see only theatricality in the fermented puddle.  I’m participatory but still observing, a bell in my brain from something of an ancillary spread.  Sipping agin, centered.  Better-collected.

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