Augusts tātad
"August must be shed slowly, like pear liqueur.
Pour into a small glass, drink a drop, and look through the glass at the sun.
August nights should be diluted with candle lights, milk poured into a cup for a brownie, purring a cat and the chatter of grasshoppers.
August days should be laid between the pages of books, like bookmarks, in order to then shake out their heat in the dank November of taking this book from the shelf.
And I conjure you, well, do not shout at all corners, "Oh, here is August, here is autumn."
Well, where are you in a hurry?
Stop the clock.
Drink a drop."

Runā, ka Bredberijs, bet who knows, who knows, internet is a beasty un prievārdi kaut kādi kreisi.

Reiz sen šo kaut kur izlasīju un kopš tā laika tas mani sargā no augusta smonday'inga*. Un vēl jau ir arī zvaigžņu lieti un plūmes, puķu pušķi ar piparmētru ziediem un neganti karstas dienas Centrāltirgus burzmā, gladiolas sen izdzertās vīna pudelēs un tumši zilā debesu bļoda, bibliotēkas grāmatu kaudzes, karsti burku vāciņi, tas dullais kabaču laiks un ābolu serdes lielos daudzumos, vaniļa, pilnmēness, teltis un lietusgāzes. Ai, augusts ir vasara un ejiet jūs visi.

*smonday: /sˈməndā/ def: The moment when Sunday stops feeling like a Sunday and the anxiety of Monday starts to kick in.