…aim, to live from this.  This page, all reflections entailed, my character never assailed only assimilated into new destinies and room consistencies.  I look back but only for a microscopic consideration of quasi-veneration.  My present station not so much simplified but sterlingly dignified, amplified, another glass so vinified.

Having what I’m having in this sitting, all to the Pinot, third of the three last night, only touched when home, and again only a glass.  Friday tomorrow, and what… next day tasting but more importantly photographing vineyards in Dry Creek.  Think I’ll start at Sbragia, like the last time I had a whole Saturday to self and went there, did just that.  More for the photos that some tasting flight.  And I’ve tasted there, at Sbragia and all Northern Dry Creek Road how many times.  Exactly.  So only for the photos, the stills of vines and their there would-be clusters.  The vintage in its formative pulse and manuscript, manifold decided and told.

Technology halting is pummel of inconvenience and inconsistency and bother.  Now I can type, imagine that.  On that to-do for the night, read.  Not sure I’ll get to that and I feel horrible.  My son always makes time for his reading, every morning, so eager the little poet is to read ALOUD…

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