This text has been automatically translated from Turkish. Show Original
I am a man who cannot keep his cigarette ashes in his tray. What do I have to do with God, freedom, joy... You will give me a roof made of soil, you will drive me to the shores of the most magnificent mountains, you will chip away at this wooden face of mine... Neither a comb is a friend, nor an autumn leaf... I call it a mountain, I say soil, I