daynote

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.

Sunday offers a brief reprieve from the lies we’ve told ourselves all week.

In Tokyo, the trees struggle to blend into the urban landscape; the buildings struggle to embody nature.

Friday pasta is more important than your email.

Summer routine: Wake up with a morning iced latte and drift off to sleep with a cookie.

Tuesday is the day when fleeting optimism is replaced by reality.