8:23a. Already writing. Ready for 10a meeting with ad agency. Sipping the morning mocha. Creative madness in this Room. Just had a structure-shaking wine writing idea. Wow...oh wow.
It’s 11:23p. I should most certainly be OFF at the moment. Dormant. My perception, considering the entire sequence of courses. Change is warranted, for the sake of the Craft. If I were a maker of wine, I would elect to shift direction with the current push. But where does this poet go?
Why is time so consistent? Why can’t it just halt? My folds fold into turmoil and the vintage vile. Shameful, nihilistic. The other day, I thought about the wine bar again. Decided it has to happen in the next three years, before this penman passes years 35. I’ll meditate in hypotheticals and potentials...