As I came into the dining room this moming, I saw it there: last night’s bottle, empty, a memory of ruby lush, the elegance of beef, savored, save the last five bottles now, make them last, like the autumn red, gold, golden weekend, wish it were longer–don’t we all?–they say. But do we? Or do we crave the routine? perhaps we do, when it is a comfort and not a struggle. But some seek beauty, in smaller places, far from the ignorance of oligarchs, beauty, the human, the wine and the wonder of crisp air, the bite, the gulp; we are not the workaday dolts, mere cogs though they wish it, no, we speak, dream, create, transcend. The Beaujolais is a wonder, drink it now, drink it later.

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