soon as possible, especially if t to come across someone  I’m counterfeit. A broker, not recognizing t I’m counterfeit,  120 silver coins in exce s of anger, sorroience as soon as ed, and ts  subside until ing anottempts to repeatedly sime on account of e and anger, inue all to curse the “immoral” person who had originally conned him.

    Over t seven years in Istanbul, I’ve cimes, and t a , bazaar, mosque, c entered. As I’ve roamed about, I’ve learned t mucold and lies spun in my name ted. I’ve constantly : Notunate  God, but me, and t buy—all to say noty, vulgar and base nature. And t I’m fake are given to even s. As my actual value drops, ap poetry is consolation to life’s miseries. But despite all sucless comparison and tless slander, I’ve realized t a large majority do

    sincerely love me. In tred, sucfelt—even impassioned—affection ougo gladden us all.

    I’ve seen every square incanbul, street by street and district by district; I’ve kno Istanbul in to Manisa. On to be attacked by ted, “Your money or your life!” Panicking, t, able. But tuation quickly greo s “Your ook urns. I don’t dare describe t cramped ’s for t I dislike leaving Istanbul.

    I’ve been anbul. Young girls kiss me as if I s, and in to make certain I’m still tored next to t, at ttom of a small bottle in a  seo a cil sack. I’ve anbul in belts made of camel leat linings made from cian cloticolored ser cro  compartment of a grandfatuck me directly into a ouffed ras of cs. I’ve knoly stood u