The pulse of the night has begun to slow down and I can't help the urges that wreak havoc on my mind.
I'm by the window; the shadows fluttering in the overflow of rustling sounds are none other than my generation.
I'm stuck a quarter of a century ago, where am I?
The years have flown by like water.
How should one begin? Was it the cycle of fortune?
Or is it the mark of defeats?
Yet why am I so unfamiliar with what I write now?
Who am I?
Is it Ali Ekrem?
Questions unanswerable...
I want to say everything, I can't write anything.
My hands are cold, my thoughts are slowing; my words have become deaf, I can't see them.