, of te. It il midnigo t it. Inside unates dressed like ic cers whose

    sorroo slip from to distant paradises, as s; to folloiquette; and a young gentleman ance from ting. -filled cabbage dolma into my bo  and topped it off  red pepper flakes before taking a seat beside tleman.

    Every nigting, dying, o our necks in misery…Some nig er me, but I kno possibly rise from the grave.

    tleman, en to a conversation. as t to t consistency, my stuffed cabbage is quite to my liking.” I asked about ly graduated from a miserable ty-coin college and been taken into Arifi Pasronage as a clerk. I didn’t ask  t,  at tate, at t  cead to be at treet kitceeming  for a moment.

    “My name is Bi and tabriz. I’ve painted t magnificent pictures, t incredible masterpieces. In Persia and Arabia, in every Muslim book arts ions are made, t me for  looks real, just like the work of Bihzad.”

    Of course, t tings reveal  t painting, as you knoe  for ts, my  is:ALIF:Painting brings to life  for the eyes.

    LAM: ters ting to t it serves the mind.

    MIM:Consequently, beauty is t the mind already knows.

    Did te of tand tracted ning inspiration from t at all.  ted at t of a -of-ty silver coins a day—today you can buy ty loaves of bread  amount—you still  kno ty-coin  kno me explain. I said:

    “I’ve painted everytely everyt at ted togetle and Prop of God ascending t of to Cemple to scare off a monster stirring up torms; a masturbating sultan spying on ties of ening t