As the night’s stance slouches, I swim in certain circles. Those whirled in wild wine. Napa, Sonoma? What does it matter? It’s like a game that never ages in appeal. The wine, twirls the stage in unexpected ways. Still waiting for this cursed podcast to upload. Why am I doing this to mySelf? This isn’t wine, certainly not writing, Literary. This waiting for digital. Virginia Woolf never had to shiver through this nonsense. Capote. This sitting, teaching me. Robert Craig’s Cab, too. More past authors.
10:27p. How is that possible? Wine may like time, as it brings grapes closer to barrel, bottle. Not me, the writer. When this blog sinks, the author finally flies in lines, imagist ties. Battling between two impetuses. Wine, writing. Writing about wine. Confined.