Just anything you want it to be, not what you want not, most what you want most. Silty, but shallow and transpierced with sunlight to the point of pellucidity. Features of mulberry-wood cigar box where you stash your weed, which you dig into at the low points to find water. Leather jacket over beguiling female shoulder recalling corduroy jacket over unrecoverable damsel recalling failure to act recalling failure to act recalling failed action.
We can pretend it's a movie; it's gritty enough. The sweetspot of coffee cool enough to drink and not gone acid with old age; the one sip that makes the 20oz worth carrying around on the dark and haunted subway. Footnoted with green grace. Overflowing with communication, drowning in words, choking on words, sweltering under words, brokenbacked 'neath words, deafened by words, lost by words, and desperate 'sprate 'prate 'rattling off things that can not be said to be lies but that can not, strictly, be said to be truths neither.
Far beyond the point of jammy richness, forward thinking tannic overload, and slim to no chance of recover; irrelevant is the color the body the nose the afterburn the price point; so mixed up with a bad crowd that even the hooligans don't want to be seen with you no more; lost in a thicket of your own doubts; and with nothing left to go by but the adorable little frog or prairie dog on the label, even ignoring the first thing you ever learned about wine, that warning never ever ever to buy a bottle with an animal on it because that's how they sell the cast off piss-water to the rubes, and look at what you've become since you stopped tasting with your whole self, since you let your better judgement substitute itself for the hun-and-vandal pillaging of just taking whatever you want all the time. You hear what you want to hear except when you hvae no choice. There is something so pure at the heart of the palatte here that miles of muck are worth wading through and don't say it's a mirror because i know it's not a mirror and
don't say it's a dream because i know it's a dream. The louder it gets, the more impossible it is, but eventually the question gets asked, against everyone's better judgement: What if the thing I'm scared of is exactly the opposite of the thing I should be scared of? Maybe there's no way that one, still totally desirable bittersweet note will fade, but keep coming up and up and up, well beyond the point of welcomeness. What if you don't back off? What if you not just hit against the side of the bottle with a liquid-dulled ring, but break right on through and leave the different reds to mix together?
Excess self-control? Take one bottle and call me at three in the morning.