I retreat to the Hira of my heart. My heart is a little tired and painful. My eyes swear that they will reopen because of the false and impersonal qualities they see too early. I know a woman who grows roses comes through the window. But I’m desperate, sir. I can’t reach this century. I’m a character who doesn’t get along with the century he lived. People are taking my breath away. Then, like Zarifoğlu, who hates his age with his hatred and bone, I walk away from it all. I take refuge in the Hira of my heart, like any creature that must first establish its own inner peace.
Fake smiles absorb more nausea than flies. You should expect a cheeky conversation as if your heart is not broken. Vomiting and kindness. If the prostration does not narrow, the hunt in heaven. Stab the knife in our back nine inches and pull back six inches. You’re a crying person. Who made the regiment regiment and asked for halal halal. Let’s say, “die and suppress the liver. Untested pain in the fatwa. Those who talk about their mastery in cornering on gravel roads are useless.
Every leaf that has fallen since the existence of humanity on the calendar page was the wrong date of one. Maybe every century has narrowed to the heart. Do you still have a heart? I’m not the only one who can fit into this century. I miss living in every century where elegance, understanding, thoughtful behavior, respect and love are valuable.