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.