One is teetering slightly, lurching almost, aiming a bottle of Tempranillo towards a seemingly moving, sufficiently empty goblet ……..and speaking to oneself (not talking, speaking)…….”What can one do?  “What can one possibly do?”……..a reflective wave of heady benevolence rushing upwards from the ***** to the lobes……"with these yet untangled thoughts and abandoned hopes of love, and those that can never be…..?”

An answer stole past its vacant sentry position too partial to be noticed. Of course! That's why…..all those blues songs and torch songs, those hurtin songs and love gone wrong songs...

Yes. It makes the world go round…. like an old record....