Sangiovese 2024

$34.00

This whole-bunch Sangiovese is juicy as hell. not that juicy, although “you can taste the fruit it’s made from” Jesse says (which are grapes). To quote someone from a birthday party a few weeks ago or a few months. blurs. time. Free will. like windscreen wipers. “It’s actually really good! I mean I don’t even normally like wine!”. A sprinkle of herb // earthy spice. Is this from Mount Etna? No, it’s from no mountain. Just a hill. No the herbs, I said herb. One barrique made of rustic charm, of vague impression. Tastes like language games. a million people imagine a million things. Like bugs. Like a google search of imagination. Don’t pretend you can taste what my tongue sees. But my eyes don’t taste. What did Wittgenstein say about language? Context? Maybe it’s like a farm gate swinging in long grass. different greens. a thousand shades of green. Cows dreaming of blue skies. A million wines? the clouds have parted. Spring breeze, wildflowers. Knees. Deep. Thinking about swimming in a creek somewhere. But the cows shit upstream. Thinking about. annoyed at your own hands? fleeting. Self organising. Blackberry thorns. One two three, the sky says "you are alive." I say you are all just language! Breathing. Sky you are no more than S. K. Y. I call you on a landline. could be greabluasdl . She said the word Hollow three times. And I step into the water and a thousand tiny fish dart around the wet stones. It tastes like "how can we know we know and the same time knowing the matter of mattering. Like derrr", its all flavour games. SYBAU. Your tongue is the subject and the object. because half the bottle is gone? no because within the weight of existence there is this lightness, a sandpit, a bulldozer when future is still abstract and warm and every little thing is soft. Like wine. A kiss. An Ephemeral state of the obvious. We are escaping and immersed at the same time and Everything is and isn’t but exactly what it is. and now the bottle is finished. Looking forwards to the past. and you're not so sure about the juicy anymore. But the table the tree the axe 

This whole-bunch Sangiovese is juicy as hell. not that juicy, although “you can taste the fruit it’s made from” Jesse says (which are grapes). To quote someone from a birthday party a few weeks ago or a few months. blurs. time. Free will. like windscreen wipers. “It’s actually really good! I mean I don’t even normally like wine!”. A sprinkle of herb // earthy spice. Is this from Mount Etna? No, it’s from no mountain. Just a hill. No the herbs, I said herb. One barrique made of rustic charm, of vague impression. Tastes like language games. a million people imagine a million things. Like bugs. Like a google search of imagination. Don’t pretend you can taste what my tongue sees. But my eyes don’t taste. What did Wittgenstein say about language? Context? Maybe it’s like a farm gate swinging in long grass. different greens. a thousand shades of green. Cows dreaming of blue skies. A million wines? the clouds have parted. Spring breeze, wildflowers. Knees. Deep. Thinking about swimming in a creek somewhere. But the cows shit upstream. Thinking about. annoyed at your own hands? fleeting. Self organising. Blackberry thorns. One two three, the sky says "you are alive." I say you are all just language! Breathing. Sky you are no more than S. K. Y. I call you on a landline. could be greabluasdl . She said the word Hollow three times. And I step into the water and a thousand tiny fish dart around the wet stones. It tastes like "how can we know we know and the same time knowing the matter of mattering. Like derrr", its all flavour games. SYBAU. Your tongue is the subject and the object. because half the bottle is gone? no because within the weight of existence there is this lightness, a sandpit, a bulldozer when future is still abstract and warm and every little thing is soft. Like wine. A kiss. An Ephemeral state of the obvious. We are escaping and immersed at the same time and Everything is and isn’t but exactly what it is. and now the bottle is finished. Looking forwards to the past. and you're not so sure about the juicy anymore. But the table the tree the axe