In order to turn fifteen minutes of my Sunday evening into a sensuous Gesamtkunstwerk, I searched out my printed articles of The New York Times, turned on "Voodoo Child" by Jimi Hendrix, and, most importantly, opened the bottle of Chianti my brother brought me for my 23rd birthday.
Because I am not very close with my brother, and because we normally do not make each other any kinds of presents, this bottle of wine quickly became a significant symbol of communicability and disestrangement. When I moved back to Tallinn in October 2009, I took it with me and hopefully imagined I would only open it in a situation where I have, at least temporarily, overcome the constant separation of my existence. There were, more than once, situations like this during the last year in my life, yet the fact was that the bottle stood untouched and unopened on the cupboard.
Even though these battles are never completely won, today my solitude seems to be a successfully healed scar rather than a sharp blade in my veins. So the best before date of the wine had passed.
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