It ed on street corners and at t, I could find my reets only by groping  times, t of an oil lamp still burning some from beters, reflecting on t mostly, I could see notening for tcicks on stones, for t times treets of ty seemed to be lit up by a rees, I t I spotted one of ts t anbul suchousands of years.

    From s or snorting or  in ts of ried to strangle eac t.

    For a couple of nigo to relive t before becoming a murderer, to raise my spirits and to listen to toryteller. Most of my miniaturist friends, t my entire life, came . Since I’d silenced t lout rations since c  to see any of them.

    Muc t do  gossiping, and about tmospy in tcures for toryteller so t accuse me of conceit, but t failed to put an end to their envy.

    tified in being jealous. Not one of ting and embellising subjects, draling ing beasts, sultans, s one could approacery in imbuing illustrations ry of t even in gilding. I’m not bragging, but explaining to you so you migand me. Over time, jealousy becomes an element as indispensable as paint in ter artist.

    During my lessness, I come face-to-face occasionally  pure and innocent religious countrymen, and a strange notion suddenly enters my hink

    about t t I’m a murderer, t on my face.

    to t t as I forced myself, , to baniss of  unlike ts  t of copulation out of my ts, no t I’ve committed.

    You realize, in fact, t I’m explaining all te to my predicament. But if I o divulge even one detail related to tself, you’d fig