Well that explains it, the intangible pull I felt when I picked out Peterson Royal Yacht. And what else could explain that residual 1-Q in the bottom of a jelly jar that never quite gets smoked but is still ineffably there? Sometimes late at night, some of my blends call out to me, sometimes in unison, but often like intertwined voices at a party, each lost in its own previous lives. My Jesuits happened to be impersonating a minesweeper crew, not nearly so well-spoken nor well read, but also deeply educational.