from this morning’s first thousand…

…wine itself yesterday wasn’t saying very much to me, not revealing any new Newness of promises. I wanted her to be more vocal or at least differently vocal and nothing happened. Should have written about that, yesterday, somehow… but when. Not angry that I couldn’t write, and that my morning’s quiet session was wrecked by the workday starting earlier than I perceived, but that’s the story. That’s what the story intended, and that’s what I had to work with. That’s why I can’t go to sleep now ’cause this could and more than likely will be one of the few times I have to write and collect all day. But I’m tired. I have no coffee. Tired from yesterday, frankly. I want to see and hear those ticketed sippers again but don’t. So what does a wine writer do for himself. Know that as soon as I lay down I’ll be either called upstairs by Jack or wife…

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