The year, fading. First release, all but complete. 9:07p, sipping a bizarre blend I today bought. Don’t even know how to deconstruct profile. And why should I? I’m sipping it, it’s delicious. Watching a documentary on Yellowstone. Need to travel more, as I always write. These pages’ll take me away. Today, in the Mayacamas Mountains, I was once more reminded how I need to be outside, as writer wined. Fall terroir shades, the silence up there, elevation, shook me. Looking at my pictures pours life into my pen’s skips. “This is wine, these scenes,” I hear the blend sibilate.
Cold in this quaint castle. Maybe that calls for more furious scribbles. Thinking of new lectures, entirely Literary, nothing to do with bottles. Plath, her ignored positivism. Stanford still screams to me. Eventually, I to Self plead. This blend, taking on an interesting, even more so, character. In my winemaking shifts, I hope to bottle something as separatist. The winery visited today, openly disclosing their aim to be different, recalcitrant. That’s how I still step in this met clef. Guess I travel like the Bison do in these frames. Nowhere near as noble, but thematically concerted, maybe.
Kelly, where? I can only wonder. Mike, isolated, in his own page, pages. Books. The blend, taking on a more hypnotically wooing persona. Mike, I, knew he needed to be in bed at time rationale, responsible. But what would that do, he, I, thought. Mike poured himSelf another glass. 10:03p, he had to be in bed in 87 minutes. But, the blend started to urge caution. Mike wasn’t sure how to process such. He spilled it, into the disposal. Water, he thought. “Desert, a writing Kalahari,” he hummed. He dumped the H2O. Pulled another wine glass. Full pour. Now, the blend braved boldness. “Keep writing,” it ordered. Mike sipped his blend. Again. I smiled, smile.