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.
