41 minutes left to Self, to the page, on this break. I have to say, these are becoming addictive, more than simply necessary, commonplace or habit. I need this hour during my day, for Equilibrium, elemental fluidity. Ignoring the flies around me, and just thinking of all that I can connecting to wine’s universe. Picturing my tasting Room. The bottles, stoppers, randomly left corks, glasses, stained cocktail-scaled napkins, guests from all reaches. A scene, from my thoughts, actualized. Dream, but no longer dreaming. Poetic subsistence, for Self, from sips, scribbles.
This song, telling me to relax, don’t panic. Don’t allow emotion to haze your sight. Rich solace, nearer. From two barrels, one book. It also tells me to not look at clocks, calendars. They’re meaningless in dreams. Time isn’t for writers, but it predictably assaults. Daily, hourly. So what to do? Keep writing, making Wine. Remembering how that street looked in Paris, at night, from above, in my Room. Want to be removed, see other wines, new escapes into history, precious present, aways.
Trying not to think of Kelly right now, as it’ll only take me away from this sitting, portion my concentration. But, AGAIN, maybe that’s what I need with my type of write. Characters, all around me. If I blend them together, I get...what? I’m thinking more of a play, stage. Not a short, or novel. OR novella, whatever that is. A story’s a story, why obsess over length, category potential? Stuck, stoic. What do I do? Focus on an object. The coffee machine, directly across from me, behind what I refer to as “the bean bar,” where they grind, sort, perform coffee Alchemy, magic, tasty wizardry. Customers pay for their addictions here. I know, being one, everyday, every lunch. Would just sit here, day’s remaining clock ticks, if I could my way have. That’s fine, I’m closer, will sit as such soon. On Wine wheels, ever written, writing.