Finally in the wine writing bunker. And what sips this wine writer? Nothing. He looks forward to sleep. Rain falling on the drive back from Mom and Dad’s. Tomorrow, and for the remainder of days mine, studio lockdown. Last night, while enjoyable, careless, could have been spent in session. What if last night was a vino shift when I was to write the short story destined for the New Yorker, or rivaling pages. Someone could say, “You’ll just write it some other time.” Amusing, simple. But, what if last night was a missed vessel? Starting to think that “someone” could have the more flavorful, beneficial motion. Tomorrow, some strategic wine for the later scenes. Three thousand words, all wine motivated, motif’d. Now, tired like I’ve never known. Delighted I found a couple rain pats to entry. Found a couple new wines, lately. Ones I’ve never touched. Hopefully another, come tomorrow. Time for blended sleep. Deep, continuous, renewing.