Yesterday, while leaving the office, I got caught by the accountant and, after a word slipped out of my mouth, I stood there for 45 minutes being guided toward the “right Ottoman path.” He remarked that he’s certain I have Ottoman blood running through my veins and that my arrival in Turkey is a blessing for participating in World War III and establishing a global Islamic Caliphate. He predicted that at that time I would bring him a bag of money, which I’d refuse because I’m already so wealthy. He also mentioned seeing the new caliph in person, who is 86 years old, and that his father died at 140.

I plan to move to a slightly bigger and better place in the coming days, but so far I haven’t found a single candidate. It’s summer now, and by the time fall arrives, options will become even scarcer.

My fourth exit from the country coincided with my first real and official crying (not just a lump in the throat) after passing through the passport gate. I have no idea why I didn’t cry the previous times, but this time my skin literally felt peeled off until takeoff.

My work performance has sharply declined, and I feel incapable every moment of my days. The slope toward depression is steep, especially with autumn approaching, making the conditions ripe for a long period of mourning.