Warm Terrace

A couple of degrees Fahrenheit one way or the other and I get cranky: heat should be stable as interest rates.

The vine and the friar. Port is to the lips of the fat monk what butterscotch is to a sweet tooth.

We, dumbly in suzerainty to thin sheets of cloud and the bee-flight of molecules.

Tart dentifrice whites, parched oak Zinfandels, Monster Reds with two heads, one hundred eyes.