“I reckon if I picked flowers the star power sucked from the ground like a naughty talisman — maybe the PH of the soil is altered by the amount of celebritydom decomposing, would my hydrangeas blush prudent pink?”

“The answer is you and I, it always is. In that sea of dust, there was nothing. Quiet, not a wave, not a sound. In that flat endless world, a soft and gentle breeze started to blow.”

As August appears every year, so does a discrete package at the footstep of my family home.