the grapes contained, in each form, the memory of the land and the hands that remade them. The monks, without doubt, thought we took this memory into our form, each body and mind willfully, though rarely willingly, revised and, night after night, devised from an idea, the seed of it. We, to that end, could taste and experience everything everything had been and been through. Did you? I’ve begun to believe the present, like the shadows on the water, twisting, doesn’t have to be a form the past took. The past has taken so much. Must there be more to give, to give back, to get on, or away, from
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