Bright and withheld, still a poetic whirl from one dimension to its next, nothing template, only jazz and echoing chords. She speaks slowly, like a curtain lifting over an atmospheric and haunting stage. 

Red cherry flickers, soft earth hums, and somewhere a ribbon of spice-air spins the Room.  Each sip pauses, considers, then moves again, graceful but unrushed. 

She refuses to shout, preferring suggestion to statement.  The finish, soft percussion like the final note of am early A.M. sax, fading ghostly leaving the Room somehow reshaped, quieter, and ready for another meditative sip of this wandering little universe of Burgundy.