He sits alone, the room dim but deliberate, silence broken only by the slow crackle of his cigar. The Colheita Tawny glows in his glass—quince, orange zest, a saline whisper that feels like memory“JUST ONE,”
he mutters, knowing well it’s never just one.
The wine is deep and steady, like the thoughts he’s trying to outrun—choices made, paths not taken, the weight of what’s next. Dried fruits and spice cling to his palate, refined and relentless.
He exhales slowly, letting the smoke curl around the moment. “MAYBE THIS IS THE ANSWER,”he says to no one, pouring again. The night stretches out before him, heavy but generous. And for now, the glass is enough to keep him company.
Ostentation Gluttony
Ostentation Gluttony
Ostentation Gluttony
Ostentation Gluttony
Ostentation Gluttony
