The story of Siberian cold wind and vodka

A bottle of vodka stands still like ice. When the fingertips touch the bottle, a chill instantly penetrates the skin - as if the cold wind with snow foam on the Siberian wilderness is sealed alive in this hard transparent cage.

The bottle is its silent language. It is by no means a smooth curve school. The straight shoulder line is like a cliff on the frozen soil, with sharp edges and corners, and a stubborn refusal to be rounded. It is a natural defense given by the harsh environment, and it is also like the tightly pursed lips of Siberians. The bottle wall is thick, far more than ordinary wine bottles, just to counter the pure and almost violent soul in the bottle. The pure and colorless liquor sways slightly behind the rough glass, reflecting the fragmented cold light, like the unsolidified undercurrent in the depths of the frozen lake, with primitive vitality and danger.

The birth of each Wine Bottle begins with the tempering of ice and fire. Deep in the winery far away from the hustle and bustle, the furnace spews out scorching flames. The red glass solution, like the surging magma underground, was poured into the cold mold. The huge mechanical arm operated precisely, but it could not completely replace the temperature and attention of human hands. Yuri, a worker wearing thick gloves, had beads of sweat sliding down his forehead, dripping onto the hot workshop floor and instantly evaporating. He concentrated on adjusting the gap of the mold, his eyes as sharp as a falcon - the angle of the bottle shoulder must be absolutely straight, the edges are the externalization of the vodka spirit, and there is no room for compromise. The fire reflected his weathered face red, which was the mark engraved by the Siberian wind and snow. The moment the mold was opened, the newly born wine bottles still had a scorching temperature. They were quickly sent to the annealing kiln and underwent a long and precise cooling. This process is like the forging of life in the Siberian wilderness. Only after being tempered by extreme temperature differences can glass gain the toughness to resist the erosion of time and strong liquor.

This angular container is ultimately filled with not only liquor, but also the fireworks of the world and the marks of time. It may be placed in a warm closet in a Moscow home, with a yellowed old photo next to it. It may be on a train, bumping thousands of miles away, and appearing at a hurried farewell ceremony on the platform of a small station in the Far East. Travelers may use it to fill it with strong liquor and drink it with old friends. The spicy taste rushes straight to the throat, diluting the sadness of parting. It may also be held tightly by the trembling hands of a military doctor behind a smoke-filled battlefield. The precious liquid in the bottle is not used to light a bonfire, but to disinfect the crude surgical instruments. The cold bottle carries the desire for life at that moment. In countless cold nights, it is a silent witness. People sit around the fire, their rough fingers rubbing the cold edges of the bottle, and cups of clear liquid roll into their hearts, and the warmth is difficult to melt in the cold body. The wall of the bottle reflects the jumping firelight, as well as faces tempered by life and stained by alcohol. Those sorrows that cannot be easily expressed, heavy thoughts, or short-lived joys, all found a silent and powerful outlet in the passing of this sharp-edged bottle.

When the last drop of wine slid into the throat, the empty bottlewas casually placed in the corner. The Siberian wind seemed to still sob and linger between its solidified edges. It is no longer a simple container, but a cold time and space solidified by glass. Those crisp lines are the skeletons shaped by wind and snow; the thick bottle wall is a silent and tenacious witness. It has contained the most passionate emotions and has also endured the most biting cold. An Empty Vodka Bottle, with its edges and corners still clear, whispers in silence - about the character of that vast and bitter land, about the rough and real appearance of life tempered in ice and fire.

This empty bottle is filled with the moonlight and wind that never dissipates in Siberia.