Despite all that I could write about me, nothing would be completely true.

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The words are crisis, gripe, and stall. The sundown saw the dark of distant rain. The hand of crisis gripping at our hearts. And shaking us before the phone even rang. The fear that strikes our ears like abstract art. Devoid of meaning - dripping muddled paint. Dark clouds heavy with the storm about to start.

A Muse In The Cellar. Thoughts about living enhanced by wine. I also have changed the registration policy, unfortunately, so that anyone who would like to post here is going to have to write me in advance at thomas at a-muse-in-the-cellar dot com so that I can create an account. If there is more interest in posting, I will revisit this policy later, but for now it has to be my first line of defense.