Having a writer’s moment. Or, just maybe, a Human precipice. Paths. Dad told me, “Think for yourself, or others will think for you.” Echoes. Maybe I shouldn’t continue as the calm Cabernet character. In adhering to Dad’s advocacy, I summon my defiant strands. Again, if the wine industry doesn’t want me, a writer, it shouldn’t adopt my words, pages. Don’t align with my likes. And certainly don’t solicit only to maliciously dissect. Me, treasuring my ideological and interpretive sovereignty. No devil thinks for this poet. Raising a glass of Malbec, to other true separatist scribblers. Allowing the Self to settle, enjoy the sips.