Walking down the street, in a kind of fog produced by the sun. At the train station, a Turkish man with his sleeves rolled up over his dark arms with matted white hair. I walked to the other end of the platform, down a metal staircase and stood at the intersection of two tracks, lit a cigarette, then walked back to the middle of the platform, and looked at the current train, and the Turkish man said “Next one.”
Text by John White
















































