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"The sounds floated up from the bazaar, carving grooves in the vinyl playing slowly in my head. Footsteps, laughter, the rustle of cloth, the call of a fruit seller — all pressed into the same record, spinning in the heat."
ART
The canvas does not speak, yet it hums with the voices of everything it has seen. Here, shapes and colors become maps - not to find where you are, but to remind you where you have wandered.
In a small courtyard, under the shade of pomegranate trees, colors are ground by hand, each hue carrying the memory of the earth it came from. A brush pauses midair, listening for the sound of its own shadow. A single stroke may open a door to a city that never existed, or recall the cool stone of a path walked long ago.

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