People have spent their lives trying to get back to the 1,001 flavor profiles of that first sip. They beat themselves against it, as birds do against windows or against a massive brass bell hanging in an otherwise empty hut in a dark and haunted forest, the birds do, to warn the little girl of danger, and in doing so give their lives so that she can live and that was the only time that bell was sounded and what was it doing there in the first place, who would have built a house for nothing but a bell that no one but altruistic birds would strike.
That first sip is a lake of cool clear water, housed in the basin of a volcanic peak, the highest in crisp, iced over, and disputed valley. The water drains out in rivulets that carry along your raft and down you go, and those first moments was all you ever got to see of the beauty that is growing increasingly indescribable. It is easy to float away from paradise, there are a 1,001 exits. It is not easy to climb back up. It is not easy to accept your lot outside. The road back is confused by wrong turning and deliberate obfuscation.
The wine is excellent, the crowning achievement of the vintners, with a price tag to match, but nowhere on the label does it warn that drinking it may cause inconsolable change in life-direction, vis a vis, drinking more of it, collecting the 1,001 suggested fruits in an inevitably fruitless attempt at recreation, not recreation as in golf and tennis but recreation as in the American civil war.
Hail, hail, the conquering white. Snow us in, we ask for it because we need it. Hail. Hail.