air so thick with the scent of fermenting grapes that to breathe is to be intoxicated, sliding across a sea of wine. a wine dark sea. see dark wine. coppery leaves swirl in the lights, stirred up beneath me, while wisps of fog lie coyly across the road, tossed scarves or maybe lost scarves. strangely warm and perfectly clean air which reminds me of the inside of a shiny new day even though we are at the end of a long day.

there was perfect beauty in the morning, staged beauty, one might say, rays of light and tossing waves and deep breaths. so beautiful it hurts inside, so beautiful-fake it’s like living inside someone’s movie-set idea of a place that cannot really exist, not in the real world, not now, not anymore. the grape leaves were turning and the workers were just moving into the fields.

the night is a different kind of beauty, darker beauty, terrible beauty.

under the trees the leaf litter crackles and prickles, small rustlings magnified in the dark, diving deep from sand into muddy waters i tease myself to see how long i can stay under before panic pulls me to the surface, a momentary loss of direction and my hands grasp mud instead of air and i wonder: would it really be so bad if i never surfaced?