Istanbul December 2006
I spent some time in the middle of 3 continent, turning each way to behold the faces of the sun . . . the sultan’s playground, a ghostly church, somewhere a deserted room of tapestries. In the distance I heard the sound of strings, the strumming of music, but the key was so strange it could not have been a guitar. Here you must never wear a gloomy expression or mix your words with sand, but the Turkish coffee is always strong . . . late at night I was roaming the streets, someone touched my shoulder, it could have been the wind. I turned and it was you . . .