Istanbul is like an unmixed dough, as you walk through the cobblestone streets, you realized there are pockets of barely stirred Eastern mysticism that hasn’t quite blended with the modernity of the West. I felt like a time traveler, that kept getting pulled into black holes, popping in and out between the past and the future. Istanbul not only joins continents but it joins cultures, history waiting every time you turn the corner.
You have to start winter the same way you start a quarentine, by knowing it will end. So that when the holdidays are finished, and the bulk of winter lays spread bare before you, a gutted fish; white meat packed against the bones like wedged feathers, that the isolation, the Styrofoam silence the white padded lawns and dusted sidewalks that show every stain, every ungraceful mistep will eventually melt beneath the sun, seep into the earth, water the seeds of what if.