Grapes, Grapes

Grapes, grapes, and all the shapes, the common ovoid and the even rarer sphere, embody the most intense sensation of succulency. I know it is a crime, but the pure sweetness, like simple syrup, is as wonderful as wine. For I, all arrogance aside, prefer wine only when it tastes like grapes, in its natural state, untouched and unmolested. I've noticed that in wines one can achieve but two variant shades of red and white: dull metamorph- osing yellows and fleshy reds. The stale crystal that wishes itself to be a mirror soon comes to the realization that the sloshing in its belly is corrupted, unholy water. However, on the vines with all their biblical wisdom and in the grapes with all their ruby, emerald, diamond, and sapphire hues -- what a delicious sight! More memorable, and farmore personal, than original sin: if Adam had been offered a choice between the simple, juicy berry or bitter drupe with its slithering friend in shady tow, what then? Had he but tasted the fresh delicacy, the sweet and savory, shallow stream that is deep in distance, wending its way to the desert, he would have known, as I do that the quench of my long- held thirst, the satiety of my ill-fed hunger, the slake of my unconscionable lust, originates in the oasis of the grape, the universe's shape.