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
20 JANUARY MMXXVI. COPYRIGHT EDITRA AND THE AUTHORS.
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