The Petite Sirah urges audaciousness, a lack of regard. Want to follow, but I’m too tired. Life, for this writer, as Humans all, abbreviated. Additional sip, realizing I’d like a photo to push the paragraph. Think I found one. The wine surface, like a revolving door in a frenzied metropolis tower, endless current. Want my writing to reverberate, like deepest of reds. This Kaz Petite, spurs my sentences. In a couple minutes, going to go old-world. For a writer. Meaning, pen to paper. This keyboard, beginning to tower in menacing tones. One more sip, clocking out ...
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