Friday, December 11, 2015

St. Francis, the saint of ecstasy






Well, my buddy and I went to a food and wine pairing at St. Francis Winery. It was what you can expect from a thing like that, a place like that. The food was good, the wine was good, the people were the people. Josh, the twenty-eight year old spokesperson who discussed the merits of what we were being fed was a saccharine sort of kid who seemed to recognize that he was merely ushering these people towards eternity. 

For once, I was almost the youngest person in attendance. My buddy, April, is one year my junior. So, she beat me out by almost a year in the backwards race towards youth, away from the grave.

But, we had a pretty good time nonetheless.  

We had the intentions to go down to the town square here in Sonoma and keep drinking and eating and living the white life, but enough was enough.


I spent the evening refining a few haikus written while watching the fog roll across the lawn. I slept like an angel, which I can only assume is never. The demons do not seem to sleep, so what luxuries are deserved among the opposing forces?


I tossed, turned all night, reminiscing, agitated at an imaginary past. 

At the imagined one, past.




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