Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar.
Facts and truth really don't have much to do with each other.
The writer doesn't need economic freedom. All he needs is a pencil and some paper.
It feels almost soft, like something to be caressed. Only gold feels that way.
Pouring out liquor is like burning books.
The scattered tea goes with the leaves and every day a sunset dies.