Three months in Bangkok and I’m still waking up before my brain does. My room above the motorbike shop feels like it’s alive, breathing all around me, so I do these tiny rituals—hard drive on the desk, Contax T2 in sight, notebook lined up like it’ll somehow clear the fog. Missing home more than usual today—especially my mom’s ghormeh sabzi and the warm noise of Farsi in the kitchen. Bangkok’s been kind, but some mornings Tehran’s song is just louder than the scooters.

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