Someone highly inebriated once said that in wine lies the greatest secret, that all life is fermentation. A small glass sits gracefully on the rough textured top of a wooden table, its heart filled to the brim with the greatest sanguine truth of them all. There is a lamp to its left whose diffused yellow light has created swirling patterns on the foot and the stem of the glass: flecks of deep blacks constituting the shadow of the dark red wine above mingle with the bright strokes of golden brilliance as the light of the lamp is squeezed into nooks and crannies by the unyielding will of the formed glass, and in the translucent surrealism which is the hyperbolic crystal stem there are impressions of the wood behind. If I were to describe these impressions I’d describe them in light vague ideas with rounded corners and soft textures, akin to how the world appears in those dim orphan moments when I have woken up by an unwelcome noise; in broad brushstrokes of confusion, muffled sounds and out of focus vision. The liquid itself is dark red, almost black, and it conforms silently to the whims and contours of the bowl of the glass. It ends about half an inch below the brim of the glass in a thin translucent ellipse where the light of the lamp, having refracted through the walls of the glass, gives up its own essence and reduces the deep black of the wine to a red hue. The glass casts a long dark shadow in which I can barely make out the vague shape of the majestic glass and the forgotten shades of deep reds – perhaps there is a final poignant point to all this, to this 2 dimensional and bland final act to an otherwise exhilarating tale...