Code of Disjointed Letters: ( Doomsday Will Arise From the Past by JT Alblood Page B

where it gathered all its genius people, was known as Istiklal Street. It was known as the center of wandering—a good street to practice the principle of uncertainty. Istikal is also home to the Jazz Stop, the only place you can indulge in smoking indoors until four in the morning while listening to live music.
    It was past midnight, and I had just cleared out all my acquaintances by boring them with quantum philosophy (my friend, alcohol, and I were having a deep talk that night). Feeling a little too relaxed, I stumbled back onto somebody’s lap.
    I offered my prince a false apology, but, then, I took a second look and my furtive glance showed me a man of medium height, wavy blond hair, green eyes, and a little charisma. But still, I didn’t cut him a break.
    “Why are you looking at me like that?” I said.
    He leaned forward and asked in a timid voice, “Do you have a name?”
    “None of your business,” I said.
    “Pretty name, but your parents must not like you very much; why else would they give you a name like ‘None of your business?’” He was being absurd, but it made me take a second look.
    My second impression was mostly the same, but this time, I realized he had more self-confidence and that his eyes were blue. I felt a sudden spark.
    …
    Istanbul once again became a narrator of beautiful tales. It told stories of two hearts blessed by love and fate.
    Once, during the first few days of our relationship, Oktay took off my glasses and said, “You’re more beautiful like this; you’ve been unfair to yourself all this time.” So after that, no glasses. My vision was a little fuzzy at first, but then it improved.
    Oktay was my fabulous new disease, and his initial side effect was memory loss. I forgot all that was old and bad. It was a fairy tale, and we were flying rapidly on its wings. Oktay promised a magnificent wedding and a honeymoon on the Monte Negro coast. Love was everywhere.
    We moved to Tuzla, at the edge of Istanbul, because it was close to the hospital where Oktay worked. We bought a house with a sea view in a building among pine trees. The scenery captivated us for hours. Most evenings we simply lit our candles, turned off the lights, watched the scenery, and held each other. We would sometimes stay like this until sunrise. We were always together.
    Although a bit late in my academic career, I transferred to a university near where we lived. After a busy day, I would run home to Oktay. Sometimes I would even make up an excuse to escape from work early. He was also working at an intense pace, but once we were home, we were ourselves again. We were happy, and each day was a feast.
    From our house, we watched the turn of the seasons, and years quickly passed. Oktay recently knocked into middle age, was working in an ordinary private hospital, and was living an ordinary life. He was smart and intellectual but not very social. But I liked that he spent all his time with me at home. Like most other people, he enjoyed watching football, and he never got tired of watching sports or sports-news programs on TV. He always had an opinion on Fenerbahce. He didn’t think there was a need to add to our life. He was satisfied having dinner with relatives or going to the cinema with me. I sometimes watched him as he wrote MR reports online, read a book, or browsed the comics, and he made me read the jokes that he liked the most.
    Eventually, he grew interested in more mysterious subjects, such as the symmetry of the universe, time travel, evolution, the lost continents of Mu and Atlantis, astrological divinations, life in outer space, ancient civilizations, and particularly the secret code in the Holy Qur’an. When he found a book on one of these topics, he got completely absorbed in it, and, if he saw a related documentary, he was glued to the screen. Our house suddenly overflowed with books, CDs, and DVDs. As time went on, the time that Oktay set aside for such pursuits began to increase.
    Our