It is enough, on certain days, simply to keep good company with the hours — to set out small saucers for them, the way one sets out tea for unannounced visitors.
The Korean word haroo (하루) names a single day, but the word holds inside it a kind of weather: the day's particular slant of light, its small hospitalities, the way the kitchen sounds at six in the morning when no one else is up. Haroo is not a unit of measurement. It is a room you walk through once.
The Japanese reading of the same character — haru, spring — rhymes with this idea by accident, the way a pressed flower rhymes with the page beneath it. To attend to a haroo is to attend to a haru: a season briefly indistinguishable from itself.
— entry 014