You knew it was too big when you saw it. Too long. Too heavy. Too much. But you reached for it anyway.
It doesn’t pour—it emerges. Cloudy gold, thick with intent. It smells like something pulled from a sunken temple: dried mango, seawater, warm hay, something floral that used to be innocent.
You take a sip. It doesn’t ask permission. Electric acid coils around your tongue, then something else—fleshier, deeper, textured like stone worn smooth by centuries. You’re not sure where it ends. You’re not sure you want to know.
Your hands aren’t big enough. Your glass isn’t deep enough. You’re trembling and it’s not even halfway gone.
Serve with grilled octopus, smoked almonds, fennel sausage, or nothing but your own body bent into worship. You don’t tame this wine. You let it wreck you.
