It is now 1022, a year has died. It may not be missed, but in many ways, I do not think it was noticed.
My ginger stores are thinner now, the tarrifs have driven the price beyond my profits.
In time, this will come to a end, just like the year did, like time did... but not yet, it can not end yet.
There is more to taste, the people must know, they aren't ready... not yet.
The Birds Of Paradise claim to be a cider. Its can is warm to the touch, even though it has been in days sitting among ice. I flick it over, so the can rolls on its side.
I did not receive mana, not of any color. It was but a deception. A facade, as thin as the paper its wrapped with.
It calls itself a Moscow Mule Cider. I know nothing of Moscow, but mules are not birds. I do not understand this drink, yet I continue to indulge, hoping beyond hope that there may be a answer in the visions...
They do not come, I remain alone.
And yet... it tastes clean. The lime comes before the Cider, and provides a crispness that is accentuated by the apples own. The tastes meld, and though the drink is dry the alcohol does not linger like a burning grease, as I find many drinks do. It is unsweet, but it doesn't need the sugar.
It does not have to cloak itself in lies, for what it has to say is not hateful to me. Its ginger is faint but used at the back end, to clear up the lime.
It is a good drink, as far as drinks can be drunk.
Good score out of ten score.