Not even seeing wine as wine, anymore.

But more so, time. Some narrating seraph that wants a writer to see more. Now sitting on floor of home, downstairs with everyone asleep, I’m into the story set. English Professor or whatever having to be in a tasting room, come morrow. Much on mind, I’m told in and by time. She, wine, saying don’t look at those numbers anymore. Breaths, deep and meaningful, purposed. Tired from the 8 miles I submitted on treadmill. Force self to continue. I have to. WE have to, she reminds. Placement on this planet, more than abbreviated. More than cruelly curt, as I always say. Gone before it’s here. So… live sans fear.