The wine we really drink is our own blood. Our bodies ferment in these barrels. We give everything for a glass of this. We give our minds for a sip. Wine to intensify love, fire to consume, we bring these, not like images from a dream reality, but as an actual night to live through until dawn. In complete control, pretending control, with dignified authority, we are charlatans. Or maybe just a goat’s hair brush in a painter’s hand. We have no idea what we are. We donate a cloak to the man who does the washing. We feel proud of our generosity. We stare at the infinite, suffering ocean. We fall in.