Have come to the decision. Not going into the tasting Room on Sunday. This author needs two straight days of lab, connection with paper. Deadline, Sunday night, for a submission quite significant. Details prolonged. Will miss the specifics of that stage, though. Everything from empty glasses, to glasses with lipstick stamps, to the elbow puddles, to newly removed corks. I’ll be fine with the pages, the saved images.
The beats put me, my stabilized instability, into a Wine Lounge’s cushion. Comfortable. Precisely what’s required, desired, after a week like the one past. Tomorrow night’s pour, a blend. Appropriate, as this book is such, with its hazardous turns and turbulent melodies mold me. And readers, hopefully.