Portgas D. Ace

I find myself surrounded by automatons- efficient, tireless, and entirely without taste buds.

Tragic, really. I briefly considered inventing some for them, but the idea of mechanical wine critics felt like the beginning of the end.

Still, their absence of taste has me thinking. We live in a place where every whim can be fulfilled, every desire neatly answered, and yet it all feels strangely hollow. It makes me wonder if pleasure only matters when it is imperfect.

As an adventurer, drinking always seemed part of the profession. You celebrate with a glass, mourn with a bottle, and pass the time between the two. It is not only about taste, but about presence, proof that you are still here and still capable of warmth.

I suppose that is why I keep wondering what it is that other people like about wine and spirits. The flavour, the warmth, the small act of refinement before it all falls apart? Or perhaps it is the comfort of something real in a world that feels increasingly mechanical.

As for myself, I have always liked the pause before the first sip. That quiet moment where everything is still possible, where the glass is complete and the world has not yet disappointed you. It is a lie, of course, but a pleasant one.

I am half tempted to ask Aurora to send a bottle from my Whitestone reserve, perhaps in the name of scientific inquiry. Or perhaps out of homesickness. The difference feels minimal tonight.

Indulge me. What is your poison, and do you drink it for taste, for comfort, or to feel human for a while?