How’d it turn so late, already.
Me with my new wine, celebrating that I actually wrote, as I wasn’t going to. Full from dinner and fearing I won’t get up in the morning when I hope to. Would that be such a deal?
Absolutely having another glass. Still listening to Miles. This whole day, music-obsesses and woven, written, loved. Music talking to me, begging me to write about her, come back and don’t again leave. What do you write about, I ask myself like every other annoying person asking me wanting that singular answer, a word, one syllable preferably. Music. Two, deal with it.
Wind, all day, diligent. Can hear trees in back year, and neighbors yards as well. No, I’m not thinking of the fires, or that there might be a fire… I’m thinking about wine, and times on Roth’s property when the wind would be present and people would just enjoy and accept the air in its forceful frolic.
Wine now more even, more texture derived and signed. I can’t wait till the next glass. Finish the entry first. More tree movement sounds. Music off, just the sounds of the room and house and outside now.