There's the bit of the e.e. cummings poem that I remember -- this is what we do in Istanbul, at a loss for libraries we've left on the shelves of parents and in meticulously labeled cardboard boxes, we remember snatches of poems. Or perhaps better, the scraps of fabric left on the floor, bright colors of something that might -- just might -- give you the shape of the whole from which it was cut.
But spring in Istanbul, a world that calls out for objects framed precisely in a shallow depth of field.
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