Asabiyet Meydanı

The city buzzes like a huge pot in which everything boils together - sweat, swearing, melancholy and music, all cooked up in the same rhythm. Here, everyone is a student at a street school, where the desks are kerbs and the bell is a hoarse bass from the doorway. The air is hot, sticky, but alive - like a party where even the walls dance.

There is no gilding here - everything is based on touch, intuition, that very street sense that saves you from falsehood. At night, bottles clink, sparks fly, and someone is bound to philosophise about fate, while others simply look for a warmer place. But beneath this noise there is a strange tenderness: towards one's own, towards those who do not give up, towards those who know how to burn, even if the wick has long since become damp.

The music sounds like a hoarse sermon on survival - a little dirty, a little funny, but genuinely moving.