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Luxury is in the space you don’t fill, not in what you do.

When Wednesday arrives, I’m reminded that freedom doesn’t reside in the weekend. It’s woven into how we shape the week.

You can’t buy time, but you can buy coffee, and sometimes that’s close enough.

This table does not exist. I do not exist. Only the pasta is real.

I keep ordering iced lattes in September, confusing the seasons.

Never ask September which season it belongs to. It will just smirk and walk away.

In September’s gentle breeze, With coffee and leaves, The heart softly grieves, For the summer it leaves.

The car, the cup, the table—everything is just an illusion created by caffeine. And what crosses my mind now is the thought that even the caffeine itself might be nothing but a mirage.

The scorching heat of August is a filter that strips away the unnecessary. No season allows for purer living than summer.

If the week is a desert, then Wednesday is a mirage. It gives us the illusion that the weekend is within reach, but in reality, it’s still far ahead.