Wine | Good Blog, Good Blog...

Industrial rumbling rolled through the cold summer night to topple over the 16th century walls. The chill lapped at my back then crept past to encircle the lamps and play within the echoes of illuminated stone arches. Shivering, I caressed the glass bottle and rifled through today’s pile of illegible notes. I’d been staggering for days over Cambridge cobbles, leafing through crumbling stories of long dead tyrants in ancient rickety libraries, forgotten and lost up spiralled turquoise stairs. As the evening drew in, I’d taken shelter in shadowed cloisters, swigging wine beneath my rooms, trying to block out words altogether.

No, not block out.

Tear out.

For I was ripping words out of my notebook for no other reason than the cathartic release. Words blurred into shadows. Sentences fragmented. Scrawled lines flashed by in a blur of lamplight.

Chaotic.

Devoid of rhythm, or meaning.

Peaceful.

Suddenly something caught my eye. It was probably the anarchic mess of penned shapes breaking apart and shedding their lettered form. It had been scrawled by a hurried, agitated hand in the crumpled back page of my travel-battered notebook. There had obviously been little time to spare. I frowned at it, unable to tell if the depraved hand was my own. I couldn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. It added a warm glow to the lonely night in that dark and wind brushed court, reminding me of far distant Illyrian rooms.

Although that may have been the wine kicking in.

“These walls look down with half-closed eyes onto shuddering beds that heave in a symphony of warm, fragmenting, pleasured sighs. This embassy breathes sex. We sleep in bouncy-castles. Sinking into secret shadowed depths we mingle within the gentle caresses of duvet. Come by and by to my chamber. We will make this night glow! I blame the wine. Always blame the wine. This house is depraved. Eros won’t sleep tonight.

Good fuck, good fuck…”