Wine and vessel, content and form, art as distillation of life, life as shaped by aesthetic preconception, a vast imperfectible, unknowable non esse continuously enclosing, unwinding, leading us on. Meaning is only another interpretive invention, significance a mere patina of hopes and fears, truth at best a provisional caesura of doubt. Only the beautiful can on occasion live up to its renascent promise: to make sentient, lucid, vital some new iota of that ambient non esse.