The Golden Downtown
You cannot wash the grain dust out of the weave, only the color. I wrote that to Farhad in the last letter, before the ink dried and the truth of it set like varnish. I am Simin Nouri, forty-two years old, a constable of the walled town of Qeshm, and I am writing this from a bed that smells of dried herbs and old sweat. The light is low, the kind that comes from the west when the sun is ready...
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