like a glass of port wine born with a kiss of sun and a spray of slightly salty breeze plucked away, crushed, strengthened in a musty stew filtered, clarified, and casked eight thousand days to grow in depth, complexity in quiet while the world rages round about only then to land a place, perhaps, at the end of a first time movieandadinner date, first sip, evocative sweet and sad and speaking of promise... but no second sip to come the journey of life, of two decades culminating in a sudden expected twist into a different urn with no way of knowing if the ancient drops can find their destiny again
— Ron – 03 Oct 2005