My sleepless nights are bottled up, corked and labeled and in the darkness predawn I carry them down to the cellar never to be revisited. Most are of a nagging medium bodied, pedestrian variety; they are impressive in number but lacking in depth. Stocked as filler only to amplify the enormity of my collection, they are a cumbersome reminder that it takes a worried man to grow a worried vine.

Many are of a bitter vintage, bursting with acrid memory and subtle notes of regret followed hotly by an aftertaste of astringent disdain. Older vintage are characterized by musty yet pleasant notes of honeysuckle, cedar paneling, turpentine, burnt toast and coffee.

The finest of my private reserve are beautifully balanced, bottle aged semi-somnambulant dreams of you. Complex and decadent, with a myriad of musky scents and crisp recollection. Notable for legs, length and lift. Dense, earthy and elegant with musical endnotes of pleasant longing, that come daylight find me cursing, then nursing the untouched years of fermentation and mourning the unconsumed remains.