Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty-Eight
Monday.
No tire pressure.
When I get into her car, I hear the voice of Ashley Flowers.
Dirty boots.
It is still foggy in the Russian River Valley. We talk about how sad it is that they removed the Syrah, coastal influence, slow ripening, and the way the vineyard cradles the cold air and fog. There are worse ways to spend a Monday morning.
Everyone wants a plan.
1967-ish Turquoise blue Mustang convertible with a cream top and cream leather interior.
Pit in stomach, which means several days of eating something the body no longer can handle.
What is and is not a reflection of oneself? There is no such thing as control.
Habits.
