Wine. The God of the Sublime. Dionysian times cured the ill humored people by taking grapes, fermenting them, turning it all into a drinkable solution that would cure terrible moments in a life by twisting them slowly away with each sip of this smooth purple pulp.

I felt the first effects of wine when my friends and I would buy a cheap bottle of Yellow Tail, pop off the cork and take slow swigs as if this was our solution to boredom, happiness, sadness, and just life in general. We sipped as if wine was our blood, our fuel, our water. The coarse wine would burn our throats and hearts, lighting up the dark dusty corners of our beings that we thought we were shut down indeterminately.

But how far can one get with wine as their fuel? Peter Camenzind didn't get very far. Neither did Hemingway. So what made us think we would be any different?