A slow, rolling terror had me reaching for a Fino. Slowly, terroir tried its best to take the place of a Benzo. The half-life was too short; brine, adrenaline, made me cry out “Oloroso!” Having my fix, and wanting to mix, down went the Fino, and a Benzo! Oh no. And if I must (and I must) pick an agonist for intensification of the effects, Fo sho, Oloroso. Amber waves of ocean syrup, nuts, berries, grains, and tangs to which You can’t say no. And, now, Oloroso translates to “OH GOD, MY LEGS DON’T WORK” Dios mio, dios mio. Just sit for a bit and cast off your FitBit, you’re going to be here for a while as you know.