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etraya2025-10-27 04:35 am
badnewsandshitlist) wrote in etraya2025-10-27 04:35 am
Un: TerribleTinkerer
I find myself surrounded by automatons- efficient, tireless, and entirely without taste buds.
Tragic, really. I briefly considered inventing some for them, but the idea of mechanical wine critics felt like the beginning of the end.
Still, their absence of taste has me thinking. We live in a place where every whim can be fulfilled, every desire neatly answered, and yet it all feels strangely hollow. It makes me wonder if pleasure only matters when it is imperfect.
As an adventurer, drinking always seemed part of the profession. You celebrate with a glass, mourn with a bottle, and pass the time between the two. It is not only about taste, but about presence, proof that you are still here and still capable of warmth.
I suppose that is why I keep wondering what it is that other people like about wine and spirits. The flavour, the warmth, the small act of refinement before it all falls apart? Or perhaps it is the comfort of something real in a world that feels increasingly mechanical.
As for myself, I have always liked the pause before the first sip. That quiet moment where everything is still possible, where the glass is complete and the world has not yet disappointed you. It is a lie, of course, but a pleasant one.
I am half tempted to ask Aurora to send a bottle from my Whitestone reserve, perhaps in the name of scientific inquiry. Or perhaps out of homesickness. The difference feels minimal tonight.
Indulge me. What is your poison, and do you drink it for taste, for comfort, or to feel human for a while?
Tragic, really. I briefly considered inventing some for them, but the idea of mechanical wine critics felt like the beginning of the end.
Still, their absence of taste has me thinking. We live in a place where every whim can be fulfilled, every desire neatly answered, and yet it all feels strangely hollow. It makes me wonder if pleasure only matters when it is imperfect.
As an adventurer, drinking always seemed part of the profession. You celebrate with a glass, mourn with a bottle, and pass the time between the two. It is not only about taste, but about presence, proof that you are still here and still capable of warmth.
I suppose that is why I keep wondering what it is that other people like about wine and spirits. The flavour, the warmth, the small act of refinement before it all falls apart? Or perhaps it is the comfort of something real in a world that feels increasingly mechanical.
As for myself, I have always liked the pause before the first sip. That quiet moment where everything is still possible, where the glass is complete and the world has not yet disappointed you. It is a lie, of course, but a pleasant one.
I am half tempted to ask Aurora to send a bottle from my Whitestone reserve, perhaps in the name of scientific inquiry. Or perhaps out of homesickness. The difference feels minimal tonight.
Indulge me. What is your poison, and do you drink it for taste, for comfort, or to feel human for a while?
no subject
You will have to forgive me if I treat it like a rare vintage. The standard for quality has dropped rather low. When my own shipment arrives, I will return the favor with something properly Whitestone in character—subtle, a little sharp, and far too proud of itself.
Vex will likely insist on joining us when the real bottles arrive. She has an unerring instinct for good wine and good company, and I suspect she will find you both.
Bring one of your Earth bottles whenever you like. I will find three clean glasses and try not to let her drink all of it first.
no subject
Nothing wrong with supporting a happy couple. ]
Please, she should be invited by all means. I'd never object, and I can do with less if you both enjoy the wine.
Where have the two of you taken residence, and is there a time that best suits your schedules?