Every sip of wine I take, I taste murderers and saints, lush green forests and cities covered in ash; I taste flowers and knives, mud and clear water; I taste a bear ripping a moose to pieces, and a nightingale singing a song.
Every sip of wine I take, I end up here. There is nowhere to go but here. There is nothing here but this sip of wine.
How then does the whole of here fit in one sip of my wine?
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