Long day in tasting Room. A tad venomous, at present, me. Writers, not writers if adversed to rejection, contrasting current. In my wine bar, delusion. Wine Knot, why not? Rain whistling at a weary window.
Mike frowns at his screen. He wants to print, but retreats into an inner incomplete street.
I thought of my wine bar, again, today. Not everyone smiles with Bordeaux, notably Cab. Can’t them blame. Just back from Monti’s. Need to consider cuisine with more care. Paris, demanding my delivery. Want to sip the St. Emilion, again, again, moreover. What can I do? Money: tight. Still, though, beautifully strangled in reflection, rejection. Île Saint-Louis, I’ll be back, soon, promised. Hope I spelled it correctly. Miss waking up in early hours, writing, overlooking dark Parisian pavements. Solution: a return, much required.