V.

At blue hour, the light withdraws slowly, almost reluctantly. It leaves the sky neither dark nor bright but something stranger: suffused, absent. Sky and water blur into a grisaille of white noise. It is the hour of threshold and transformation, when the world briefly forgets its own outline. The cyanotype knows this hour instinctively; it was made for it. These images are the wordless calm that falls just before the night remembers itself.