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Sofia breathes again throughout another August. Sofia breathes, sings, laughs, goes out for drinks, cooks, sews and learns crafts, creates something from nothing, with full lungs, crowded to the limit and beyond, full of faces, smiling, loving, excited, distracted and strict. Umbrellas up, sandals on, under the sun, at the park, at Popa, sitting on a bench, in the little streets painted with graffiti, in front of the theater, behind the library, at Ariana, up at Kopitoto, up to the knees in lime puddles. Sofia is a cup of tea, fresh like summer, with a bitter aftertaste. Just our cup of tea, crowded with people, hurrying, hectic, on a bike, on their way to work, interrupted by a long lunch under the midday sun. People doing business in a pastry shop, important decisions made between beers, after 18, inbetween sprouting grass around hexagonal tiles, tilted paving stones, where tram rails finish in the sidewalk. And carry on on the other side. In August Sofia is at the seaside, but it looks fuller. And when it rains, it gathers under the closest roof. Avoiding pointy umbrellas, old friends get closer and new lovers meet. At least until the rain stops, when we get lost and merge again with the city. Only to meet again, just the two of us, up in the abandoned police booth where Angel Kunchev and Patriarha meet, a monument of past times not so distant, where time stops for a moment. Because Sofia is big, but the world is small. And on it goes, in a city, just like any other, part of a bigger picture, on the crossing of the village and the megapolis, the traditions and new ways. Surrounded by coders, carrots in one hand and a mouse in the other. Knees deep in mud, by the sweat of our brow, eyes on the horizon. This Sunday, we meet again, under the aforementioned booth and under the sun, with a cart full of veggies, a scent of countryside, breathing with Sofia. Sofia breathes in, we breathe out.