The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

In Irene Rozdobudko's The Lost Button, a manic pixie girl called Lika has a bit of Transcarpathian blackberry wine.

And what wine it was! The first drop was like blistering viscid resin. Sweet and thick lava flowed down my throat, its stream ran further, washing off all my insides. It was as if I saw myself from inside, felt my every cell - just like I did in the morning and ... I lost feeling in my legs. It was as if a butterfly-swallowtail was trying to open its glued wings inside my chest. The thick liquid had the taste of time - the bitterness of twenty-year-old dust ingrained into the glass of the bottle, the roughness of the wild berries that died long ago, and the sweetness of yellow sugar (of the kind that no longer can be found!). And also - a particular aroma of some kind of unknown potion. My lips nestled eagerly on the mug, and I tore myself away only when they had turned black and when whiteness glimmered on the bottom.


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