Were I immense, I’d take the moon and the sun and anything else tangible up there, put them under my feet and stomp them like grapes.
Can you imagine the taste of a celestial wine, once it has had time to age?
The reviewers would scramble to come up with new adjectives.
Families would sit down to indulge in eons.
Priestdom would be forced to confront science with each communion.
Teetotalers would crusade through the cold and dark with all their suspicions confirmed.
The wine would spider new vines as I swirled it in my glass. They would eventually overtake my arm, then the rest of me, should I sit long enough. And I would. I’d sit and let it overtake me. New moons would sprout from the vines. Suns, too, bursting over my skin like electric muscat.
I’d become infinite, fecund, a factory.
At harvest time, I’d cheers myself, smash a glass and pour again. Feeling a new lightness, I’d stumble home every night with the arc and streaked brightness of a shooting star, finally proven right that drunkenness is rebirth!
A few times a week, I make a collage and then write a story based (however loosely) on that collage. This is one of those stories.