Out on the Plain of Montiel with lance unholstered and distant Windmills grinding their grind, one traverses a Golden Path offering the promise of Infinite Paella and a wine of good vintage from La Mancha, which to consume would set the World right and cause the Universe to take note at least for the moment as, reeling from her memory, your Dulcinea intrudes dream-wise, the beckoning ache of the electric touch announced as the fleeting Moon light through parched naked window streams.
And you take another glass of wine.
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