The winters iral Asia are pierg and bleak, while the sweating, foetid summers bring cholera, dysentery and mosquitoes, but, in April, the air caresses like the touch of the inner skin of the thigh and the st of all the fl trees douses the citys throat-catg whiff of cesspits.
Every city has its own internal logic. Imagine a city drawn in straightfeometric shapes with crayons from a childs c box, in ochre, in white, in pale terracotta. Low, bloerraces of houses seem to rise out of the whitish, pinkish earth as if born from it, not built out of it. There is a faint, gritty dust over everything, like the dust those pastel crayons leave on your fingers.
Against these bleached pallors, the iridest crusts of ceramic tiles that cover the a mausoleums ensorcellate the eye. The throbbing blue of Islam transforms itself to green while you look at it. Beh a bulbous dome alternately lapis lazuli and veridian, the bones of Tamburlaihe sce of Asia, lie in a jade tomb.……（内容加载失败！）
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