Little thoughts slide down inside of a glass. The wine is burgundy in its depths, but pink like a rose where the light touches.

We’re not interested in excuses, or reasons, or predictions; we stare, instead, numbly at the steady drip down decline of the world into a series of tiny sips.

Liquid touching lips, something to calm the anxious-beating heart for one endless moment. … And then another, and another.

Time slows. We wait.


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