In order to understand and enjoy everything good around you, there are specific conditions that must exist. First, surround yerself with presence of a loved one on soft sandy shorelines invaded by icy fingers of fresh snowmelt.
Then, in a moment of Ghandi enlightenment, thrust a fortunate hand into the darkness and yank a moistened bottle of Consecration from behind a slippery streamrock. Next, a flick of the wrist and yer shooting off an angsty cork into a moonless yonder.
Noisy columns of water slip and slosh awash with fluvial endlessness. You notice curvaceous silhouettes in what dim light invades your nocturnal veil. These should be tulip glasses—ready to contain what some call “liquid anticipation”.
A blinding spark of foresight: Licking the inside of an oak barrel. Playfully teasing the wispy locks of current and cinnamon imps. Or cradling an eddy of sour bubbles in your belly button.
There’s really nothing tricking or surprising here. You know it’s special when you hold the bottle. Rub it on your moustache and drink in the smells even after the bottle is dry. Let yer thoughts lounge amongst the sinuous vines of mossy dingleberries upon boulders.
Stretch your stubbly mandible wide like a shaved lion. It’s the hour of trolls and witches. Your beery thoughts now dream of the Motherland and wild, tart waters flowing brown and red.
-Pedro Wooly
- 2 years ago
