Mango rice, woman with a fur coat and blooming headscarf in green, woman in otto linger pants and loafers dipped in green ink, man with green turban and prayer chain in a long dress, cramps, pumpkin soup and green traffic light, Fussel in my mind, puddles of piss and rain on white sneaker, white pants and jacket, bloated belly under heavy scarf in the dark, Ramadan and wet clothes, two laptops starring back at me from my bed, soup leaks into the white single use, Fussel on yellow flowers in a cardboard box, headache and painkillers, a limp being in my arms, tears and me breaking down, losing, letting, loving, lasting heartbreak and emptiness in a space that won't be filled by all the prayers and pastries and painkillers and green pants in the world, not even if they are by Otto Linger. And not if I wore them on the skinniest legs with the most beautiful hair. Entering the blue of the hamam, I washed myself closer to the depth I held so closely to my being sick, my being sad, and lethargic, holding loss and pity in this round room with a pink gymnastic ball and a fainting couch for my nausea. And yet there was no tipsy tomcat in the hallway to look at me sideways and sit next to my face when I tried to sleep. There was only purple light from a shady bar next door, blue light from just another miserable person on the floor, yellow lights in all the windows of opposing walls, and thinking of pumpkins and flowers and orange hair.