Dishwasher loud, my writer show, or program, going, glass of Spanish wine. 

img_5421I’m done with day.  So, wine, singing to me, growling with loving dialogue, spring and downpour of poems.

After having some wine at Thomas’, I’m reconsidering my life in wine, beyond a simple tasting room, in the glass, what people say when responding to wine, and then more.  The wine now expresses floral fruit and earth, some oak but not eclipsing any known note of any kind… sweetened euro-pencil lead.  I’m just searching for descriptors like those critics and experts I’m sure do.

When on the road and talking about wine I won’t use such any-language, anything like that.  I can see myself later, about a year from now, talking about this very wine, this bottle, the second bottle of a three-bottle allocation from a wine club-like arrangement.  I see the world around me in a diversion of division, and I’m expected to read precision of mentality and no banality… so much for the one in penned send.

Another glass of this Spanish song.  The long and short of this is nothing long nor short.  The room around me spins and stay still find self incredibly concentrated, writing.  I’m always more me when writing.  So… even though over 3,000 words, why not go further.