…living more wildly than I have in days… days.. The point of this book, is, well to find something. In wine. In me. In my wine story. And what is Mike Madigan’s wine story.. something here. In this room. The bottle tasting better than the last time I swam in her borders, about a month or two ago. More structure and symmetry… lovingly and musically cogent. But I’m going to stop describing wine the way I do, the way people tell my to keep talking and writing about wine, ‘cause it might do something. But…. This light, from bottle’s neck and the cork looking back at me, strangely singing to my inhibitions and aims, my sentences and words, how I view this room. How I see everything… with appreciation of and estimation, embrace of living chords… how wine starts out there, on vines, from breaking bud to clusters, to harvest. On the couch now watching some show about a writer, whose attitude I admire a bit but the work ethic I don’t at all. Why is it so hard to finish a fucking book? Each vintage, wine is made, each sitting should be something toward a book. See my meaning? See my sight?