tea [Theme] Page 3

September... It's time to knit cozy sweaters, pour tea into mugs and take apple pie out of the oven. Hug and love each other...

You entered without noise. In ballet shoes. Made us tea with lemon balm. Smilingly you sit opposite. Reading every letter in my eyes. We are with you for a long time. Together we love to breathe the sea. There the air is saturated with a special taste. We eagerly inhale every wave. You don't ask me questions. Gently wrap your foliage. You add cinnamon to the cake. Listen to my silence You're leaving in three months. Kiss me, hug me. Cheer up with your wisdom. And make a list of tips for the year. You leave without noise. As it came. Leaving a note: I

August dutifully falls asleep, giving way to a heated place in September. And we drink spiced tea with apple pie and dream of a new summer.

I love to drink. Tea.

Memories creep back.

- It's not bourbon. This is tea.

And it's the best thing I've ever experienced.

You do not know at all when and where and how unhappy love ends. But one beautiful morning you wake up and your teacup is empty. At the bottom there are only two small tea leaves - echoes of souls and a dirty rim on the edges of the dishes that served as a vessel for love. It's all. Go ahead, wash your cup. To pour new tea into it.

Life with an unusual taste, like tea with bergamot, coffee with cardamom or tiramisu with raspberries.

Penetrating light, thin rainy fingers, light pollen of the wind on the wet cheek of your window, a handful of flowers, a bouquet of flowers, a sea of colors and an amazing box of green sounds. Narrow silk paths, a weightless web of dreams on bare feet, a canvas of caring voices around, faith in summer, in the true and the forgotten. Belief in becoming, in what has happened, in the embodied. The grateful echo is relentless, insatiable and endless. Fragrant juicy breakfasts on the wooden floor, sunny croutons, tea in the palms, petals of seasonal showers in the hair, there are always rays in the heart. Summer...

Oh, that Sergeant Colon, thought Vimes, groping his way through the dark, stale room. The most that neither is a lover of darkness. Sergeant Colon owed thirty years of happy marriage precisely to the fact that Mrs. Colon worked all day and Sergeant Colon himself worked all night. They communicated through notes. Before leaving for the night, he prepared tea for her, and in the morning she left him a deliciously cooked and hot breakfast in the stove. They had three adult children, all born, Vimes suspected, as a result of the use of a penetrating ink.

On the stage, people have lunch, drink tea, and at this time their destinies are crumbling.

- Blimey! He's just like my ex-wife, I swear. She was the same too. I asked her where my socks were. She said where you took them off, love. Here is the same.

The tea ceremony for the Japanese is a religion. This is the deification of the art of living.