III.

From high enough, a city unravels and becomes pure motion. Gazing through the floor-to-ceiling glass of my hotel room, the city unfurled beneath me in a palimpsest of flow. I was its unseen orchestrator, tracing the light with a quiet hand. Rush hour is the city’s most honest self-portrait — ten thousand small trajectories, each one a life in parenthesis between one place and another. These images were made in an interval of suspended overview — before I immersed myself back in the crowd, and became, once again, indistinguishable from the flow.