So, I turn around, see vineyards. Endless arranged green. Last night, enjoyed the calm Cabernet of Hawkes. In my maze, an opus develops. When it to fruition flexes, only the idea itself knows. The wind outside forces the vines to dance. Getting mad at the vehicles racing by, interrupting my favorite show.
On the hunt, yet again, for an unorthodox, WEIRD, surprising blend. Called my comrades at the Wine Emporium in Sebastopol yesterday. They informed me, prospect by prospect, that much me awaits. Hope I have adequate cash stash, to supply my ever-dwindling wine cache. Sure I misspelled something in that last sentence, and probably more in the lines preceeding. This is a standing session. My fingers, cramping, legs shaking, eyes watering from being so close to this devilish screen. I need some level of allowance, leniency. Cringe at what I could be misspelling. Need a sip of something...Chard.