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I found a vintage postcard of a lighthouse in a second-hand book, its message faded but still legible: “Home is wherever you are happy”.
Breakfast in bed and no alarm clock.
Growth happens in the in-between: the moments after a mistake, the quiet hours when you’re not sure what’s next, the days when you’re trying but not quite succeeding. Those are the spaces where you become more of yourself.
Slowly, coffee has become an integral part of my life, and it seems that there are many people like me.
Wire pole a pair can not move, to line hand code rust, to paint.
I know you're a jerk, but you can't pull with your mouth.
The south wind, cold missing coffee, but blowing away the compression of distant miss about. That is, loneliness, melancholy and a deep desolation, over the years, but also a heart of the sea of ups and downs. With the hand that wrote the oath to hold up a piece of light willow catkins, like fire enthusiasm, like the tenderness of water. Your eternal nightmare, has been treasured in my pupil, soaked, deep melt, swallowed in the heart, never fade.