the book, the thoughts not the book tonight.  The wine industry, so funny and flawed, like an inconsistent avalanche of what-the’s.

Red wine, now perfect, and now all me and my book… fucking book, wine memoir or something, something with me and with the scene, this room and tomorrow when I wake up slow and sipping coffee, cursing the drive… but why.  It’s my mood.  This thought from and frame, framing me as something rejectionist but I’m not, at all.

Keeping self in the tasting room, everything about it.  Analyzing it, or not so much analyzing but more seeing, considering, the language of the people and what they want— oh, they want to taste wine and they want answers, seeing me as some kind of expert but don’t know what to say when I say I don’t know much.  I just love wine, write about it from time to time, so… then….. what.

Night settling on me like that first night when I knew the danger of fires was over, that it was all over.  But it’s never over.  IT follows me, us.  That’s why the wine to me so now body and seraphically speaks.