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We spend eleven months ignoring the fact that everything dies, then one month making it look chic.

The latte art dissolves before you finish the cup. So does everything worth looking at.

You never know if the person walking ahead of you is going somewhere, or simply walking away from somewhere else.

One glass full of something warm turned cold. One glass full of nothing but clarity. The table does not judge which one you reach for first.

Before you stir it, it is a painting. After you stir it, it is a drink. Both are correct. Neither lasts.

Black and white does not erase the warmth inside the cup. Some things resist the palette they are given.

We arrange branches in vases and call it decoration. The branches, for their part, have no opinion on the matter — which may be the wiser position.

A city avenue stripped of color still holds more than enough beauty.

You can tell a lot about a place by how carefully it puts together the small things.

Between the roots of an old tree and the glass of a new tower, the city keeps a secret it will never explain and never need to.