I am sitting in the middle of a few bricks called textbooks and a hundred pointless papers, and trying to write one to survive Fall 2009 in the United States of America.
A stack of Orhan P. sits on my desk making me wish longingly to be able to write like him. His titles are all about colors: Snow, The White Castle, The Black Book, My name is Red and The Other Colors. And Istanbul is a strange mix of grey and blue.
Suddenly I am missing hurtling in an auto-rickshaw to Sush's place, taking a stroll on their terrace with a cup of tea in hand and watching the neighbor's rabbit playing on the roof across.
Thou must not age!
A stack of Orhan P. sits on my desk making me wish longingly to be able to write like him. His titles are all about colors: Snow, The White Castle, The Black Book, My name is Red and The Other Colors. And Istanbul is a strange mix of grey and blue.
Suddenly I am missing hurtling in an auto-rickshaw to Sush's place, taking a stroll on their terrace with a cup of tea in hand and watching the neighbor's rabbit playing on the roof across.
Thou must not age!
