A woman crosses the street. Not just walking—placing herself. The tilt of her chin, the way her coat sways behind her. Across the square, a man shifts his stance, adjusting his posture, balancing the scene.
A vendor calls out—sharp, clear. A customer responds—soft, melodious. Knives chop, coins clink, a child laughs. Not noise. Never noise. A composition. A living arrangement of sound.
People don’t just talk; they shape their words like clay. A disagreement crackles, sharp consonants clashing, breaking apart. A resolution smooths over, vowels stretching, softening the space between. Two friends sit on the steps, saying nothing, their silence aligned like parallel lines in a painting.
A courier weaves through the crowd—quick, agile strokes of movement. He catches a falling package, turns his foot just so, and continues forward. Behind him, people adjust. They always do. Not because they have to. Because it feels right.
At a café, cups are placed just so. A woman stirs her drink, the spoon’s rhythm steady, deliberate. Across from her, a man leans in. The angle of his shoulders, the way his fingers tap the table. A conversation.
As night falls, the city dims in waves. Lanterns flicker on, soft pools of light. A musician on a balcony plays three notes—no more. The silence that follows is just as important.
Stillness settles. Calmness fills the air. Everything in its place.
