One day, while drinking a wine, I cried.
It was the winter of 1999, and I was sitting in a Parisian bistro with two friends. I wasn't melancholic, nor particularly emotional. We were chatting about wine and life, surrounded by the tall, dark wooden shelves that made up the walls of the tiny locale, trying to shield ourselves from the cold draft creeping in from the door.
We ordered a bottle, which was brought to us and opened.
It was my turn to smell, taste, and listen to that wine. I did so, and immediately I was struck by a strange, unsettling, profound sensation. I did it again, and I couldn't believe it. On the third taste, I was overwhelmed with emotion, and I cried. I cried for a long time, smiling.
Since then, I have always though that one day I would write something to try to explain why.
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