The white side of poverty is that it leaves human-like scars on every honest heart. Even if it's not happy, living has to be hopeful. And we are guests of such a time that the apple that Adam ate costs three thousand liras per kilo in the market. They have been busy consuming curse words and harboring septic intentions about humanity. Even our saliva is not enough to heal our wounds anymore. Our wounds are not healing anymore. So, our wounds do not become better wounds anymore.. On Herekol Mountain, as we dreamed.. Or right in the middle of Bagdat Street.. The warmest human words are captured dead.. And my sadness started to work in a public morgue.