Prelude

Every book about any hobby includes the admonition to keep a journal. Writing, trains, mushrooms, metallurgy, ginseng, carving, aquariums, the study of any of these requires a special balance of graphite/ink and paper before any success actualizes. And to these, wine is no exception; the venophile must keep several vials, files, all linked with inks before the cork is even cooked.

This is the journal, the story of a country ^wine_time in the city. This is the first story of Minotaur Wine, the first breaths of ^existance_life the berries stole even as the bottles were being sealed.

The story, like the wine, must have time to mature; the berries, the details, do not intoxicate when still fresh with fact. Months must mediate the malaise of memory with the menace of madness. Only then will the story be palatable or the wine describable.