It takes strength, I explained. As with many things in life. You learn to walk and not fall when the legs are strong enough. We learn to chew and swallow mouthfuls increasingly large and bitter. Only learn to sit and stay still when he has absolutely no desire. Yet this is strength.
Life is a huge harvest. Aspects of the fruit for months and only in one day, sweet swollen slit them under the warm rays that make the leaves shine frayed and the back of small glossy green spiders fleeing disturbed. Then the mill, the vats where the juice is fermented and boiling it breaks the head of the first breath, if you're not used to - but you know you never try fortigna greatest pleasure of intoxication that is mixed with the sweat and warmth of lazy 'Autumn at the door, as you penetrate into the skin numb. Finally, the press, the terrible and majestic press that impress me as much as a child, which squeeze the juice soaked in dark and bitter seeds and stems, and the taste of a life hidden secret that you can never fully understand .
The press is the crucial word: most of the must cloudy and ambiguous, and the laughter of children that follow each other under the domes of the vineyards. The iron bar that runs between your fingers, kidney and groan with every swing, the blisters begin to form, dry and formulaic "ta-tlak" that fills the air along with the thrill frothy that filters through the dense axes Wood, cola bubbling on the plate, sliding along the metal nozzle from the tank. The newest wine ... It 's always been my favorite. Perhaps because it ended a cycle, and gave his best, showing no signs of fatigue. Maybe because you were forced to produce the best of yourself. After that do nothing but throw pies skins tablets scratching chickens, and wait until November when the Cut branches watery sap, gray and silent in the afternoon to sniff past the fog.
It takes strength, I repeated. He wanted to try at all costs. I looked at her, smiling as it grew purple in the pull towards the cylindrical bar scraped by many hands. I helped her. Together create the sound that I loved so well remembered and was a kind of spell regenerated. Only there was no longer my grandfather, his land, my parents, uncles, and cousins, there was no one, apart from her, even the vines were cut and left to die because no one had more time to deal with it. It 's a shame that has come before in my life. It would be fun: I would have liked it to belong to this world of my youth, with his magic at the end of summer. Might have understood a lot about myself ...
Back home, stappai one of the bottles that we had given our friend. She had a vineyard enough to generously cover the needs of a year. The bottle was last year. Wine press, the last one. And 'one of the few who, like me, without understanding why, he always bottled separately.
poured the wine into a goblet. I looked at him. It was warm, dark and rubescente like blood. Glowing crystal, similar to an ancient stone. I breathed. The aroma load stunned, but goes deep, making its way slowly, slowly, es'insediava intact with all its strength from some part of the soul and memory.
She moved into the room. There was something that stirred me in the head, perhaps a memory, a thousand thoughts, a feeling unknown but important enough. I lifted the cup, and watched through that filter Ferrigno. I watched its soft shape and intoxicating moving swells of life and physicality. Immediately felt the desire to grow in me. I brought the cup to his mouth, and without taking his eyes off you drank it slowly, savoring every drop as if it were the last, listening to descend into the gorge, down to the stomach, and penetrate into the blood with warm and hot wave that dilated on the skin.
I got up. I went to her. I took it and pressed it, greedy. I kissed her. It takes strength in life and the life that flowed in the veins and the flesh was mine, and I wanted to. I like the press the last yearning wine grapes left. Perhaps this was the secret despair of that machine: a huge, voracious desire for life and drunkenness, not to feel the loneliness and absurdity of existence.
I kissed her. I returned the kiss. Her lips parted on mine. Broke off suddenly when he felt the pain I had caused, biting. Inadvertently, perhaps. Perhaps unintentionally, the bites to hurt you ... I moved her hand. A drop of blood slipped on the bend of the lip. I apologized. I went over and kissed her gently right on the wound. It was a drop of his life, his privacy, to slip inside. Dark, hot, dense and as a last rubescente wine. The same flavor.
Life is a huge harvest. Aspects of the fruit for months and only in one day, sweet swollen slit them under the warm rays that make the leaves shine frayed and the back of small glossy green spiders fleeing disturbed. Then the mill, the vats where the juice is fermented and boiling it breaks the head of the first breath, if you're not used to - but you know you never try fortigna greatest pleasure of intoxication that is mixed with the sweat and warmth of lazy 'Autumn at the door, as you penetrate into the skin numb. Finally, the press, the terrible and majestic press that impress me as much as a child, which squeeze the juice soaked in dark and bitter seeds and stems, and the taste of a life hidden secret that you can never fully understand .
The press is the crucial word: most of the must cloudy and ambiguous, and the laughter of children that follow each other under the domes of the vineyards. The iron bar that runs between your fingers, kidney and groan with every swing, the blisters begin to form, dry and formulaic "ta-tlak" that fills the air along with the thrill frothy that filters through the dense axes Wood, cola bubbling on the plate, sliding along the metal nozzle from the tank. The newest wine ... It 's always been my favorite. Perhaps because it ended a cycle, and gave his best, showing no signs of fatigue. Maybe because you were forced to produce the best of yourself. After that do nothing but throw pies skins tablets scratching chickens, and wait until November when the Cut branches watery sap, gray and silent in the afternoon to sniff past the fog.
It takes strength, I repeated. He wanted to try at all costs. I looked at her, smiling as it grew purple in the pull towards the cylindrical bar scraped by many hands. I helped her. Together create the sound that I loved so well remembered and was a kind of spell regenerated. Only there was no longer my grandfather, his land, my parents, uncles, and cousins, there was no one, apart from her, even the vines were cut and left to die because no one had more time to deal with it. It 's a shame that has come before in my life. It would be fun: I would have liked it to belong to this world of my youth, with his magic at the end of summer. Might have understood a lot about myself ...
Back home, stappai one of the bottles that we had given our friend. She had a vineyard enough to generously cover the needs of a year. The bottle was last year. Wine press, the last one. And 'one of the few who, like me, without understanding why, he always bottled separately.
poured the wine into a goblet. I looked at him. It was warm, dark and rubescente like blood. Glowing crystal, similar to an ancient stone. I breathed. The aroma load stunned, but goes deep, making its way slowly, slowly, es'insediava intact with all its strength from some part of the soul and memory.
She moved into the room. There was something that stirred me in the head, perhaps a memory, a thousand thoughts, a feeling unknown but important enough. I lifted the cup, and watched through that filter Ferrigno. I watched its soft shape and intoxicating moving swells of life and physicality. Immediately felt the desire to grow in me. I brought the cup to his mouth, and without taking his eyes off you drank it slowly, savoring every drop as if it were the last, listening to descend into the gorge, down to the stomach, and penetrate into the blood with warm and hot wave that dilated on the skin.
I got up. I went to her. I took it and pressed it, greedy. I kissed her. It takes strength in life and the life that flowed in the veins and the flesh was mine, and I wanted to. I like the press the last yearning wine grapes left. Perhaps this was the secret despair of that machine: a huge, voracious desire for life and drunkenness, not to feel the loneliness and absurdity of existence.
I kissed her. I returned the kiss. Her lips parted on mine. Broke off suddenly when he felt the pain I had caused, biting. Inadvertently, perhaps. Perhaps unintentionally, the bites to hurt you ... I moved her hand. A drop of blood slipped on the bend of the lip. I apologized. I went over and kissed her gently right on the wound. It was a drop of his life, his privacy, to slip inside. Dark, hot, dense and as a last rubescente wine. The same flavor.
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