originally posted by Christian Miller (CMM):
This was a new thing, intensity without weight, no clear flavors at all. Yet he saw it in all its dimensions, endless possibilities of adjectives stretching away across the centuries. For every instant of reality there existed countless projections. An invisible palate within remembered the false pasts beer, soda, food wines. Was he Bob Parker or the Kwisatz Haderach, product of centuries of breeding for good taste? For a moment he panicked, then thought: “I’ve not brought my mind to rest at its beginnings. How can I taste chaos?”
Setting aside preconception, he examined the wine in Prana Bindu suspension-awareness, seeing it simply for what it was. No oak, no bergamot, no gobs of anything.
He felt the pressure of mass unconsciousness, the burdening sweep of Merlotkind across the universe. The Bene Spectorate, swimming in this tide, a corporate entity trading in points, trapped in the torrent as he was. A wrong selection here could precipitate a jihad of untold proportions, nations tearing down edifices of false taste, planets ripping up their oak forests.
“87”, he pronounced.
--Frank Herbert