Money isn’t like mushrooms in a forest—it doesn’t just pop up on its own, you know.
The bus plows down the highway at a set speed, the tires humming along, never getting any louder or softer. Same with the engine, its monotonous sound like a mortar smoothly grinding down time and the consciousness of the people on board.
“‘In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion,’”
When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier time leaking out between the pages—a special odor of the knowledge and emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers.