everyone told me about the winter but it's still nice, and i still here cicadas loud and clear. i know i don't belong here in the way i belonged bogazici, but that feels like another lifetime anyway. i'm thinking of shiny fingers and successful people and what you leave behind and what you take with you. i can wear anything i want now. i would love to be a part of things. i just ate a really good cookie. i want to cook for my husband. i want to buy kilos of tomatoes and every fruit and vegetable that is in season and put them in my fridge, just to have them, just like we had them back home. seems like people are counting everything here. there's too much calculation, the tips, the taxes, the coupons, how many cans come out of this package? too bad the metric system is not employed here with all its decimal perks. the fall, the parks, the golden trees. they are 'winter trees'. i learned so much in primary school.
what's mine is yours.
so he came here and he talked about the writer and the reader and schiller and mann and kafka. these things would happen somewhere out there and i would watch them from my corner and i would think, wow. this is actually happening, though. this time, to me. but for the record, i would feel the same if he didn't have a nobel prize. the black book did it for me.


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