Wine, well now, I’m just enjoying a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and not thinking about it.  No notes, no description– just thinking, enjoying quiet and zen following a day cruelly extended.  Only now does the writer have time to himself.  Look at the glass– what, it is… what.  Reflective of me and the point of the trek or trudge I find myself on.  Need another glass, year I turn 38.  How did I get this old, and with so much stress?  Need to stop thinking.  Just keep sinking in the SB’s read.  Outside’s rain tells me not to stop, to be relentless with my creative carelessness.  Agreed.  Another sip– celebratory.

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