city
The City, Before Anyone
For one hour a day, every metropolis briefly becomes a private collection.
There is an hour — roughly between the last night bus and the first espresso — when a city of millions belongs to whoever bothered to get up. Shop shutters down, crossings blinking amber for nobody, streets so empty they show their actual shapes.
Photographers guard this hour jealously. The light is clean, the pavements are freshly rinsed whether by rain or by street sweepers, and every composition arrives without waiting for a gap in the crowd.
An empty-street wallpaper reads differently from a bustling one: not lonely, but early. It flatters the person unlocking the phone — you and the city, both up before everyone.
