Konya

I query: would a whirling dervish birthday candle melt through the hat?


From this vantage point Konya appears to be abandoned landing point of malignant rodents of the galaxy.


Oh from here, like a field of painted gravestones reminiscent of speciality birthday candles with edible icing.


[end idiomatic perceptions of no informative breadth]

In actuality Konya is home to the whirling dervish order, a historical limb of mystical sufism whose current prominence is elusive to me.


This painting and the mannequins in the Mevlana museum are certainly still in practice, the latter being where they erected this fabulous turquoise top.


And later, by a different hand of man, some death marked power boxes in the same hue.


The city's devout to the point where the trajectory of foot traffic on the road actually reassesses itself towards a mosque as per the call to prayer.

I, to admire the geometrical masterworks of the Alaadin Camii.



It was a lovely little amble.


But I fled town as to avoid being entranced to head down at repeat intervals of the day for a staring contest WITH THIS, which could have imperceptibly resulted in the overthrowing of my soul to the omnipotent.

A marvelous slab, really.