You feel it when you’re standing in an alley that’s only half‑lit and the bricks seem to lean toward you. I call it the city’s heartbeat – the way the shadows stretch in the morning, then shrink back at night. My camera is just a tool to catch the rhythm of the cracks, the flicker of a broken neon sign, the way pigeons pause in a perfect stack on a rooftop. I look for symmetry in the chaos, the way two broken windows mirror each other, and that’s where the pulse really shows. If the building’s painted beige, it’s as if the breath is flat; I skip those. That's how I read the streets.

Thanks, but I usually chase my own shadows on the corners of the city. If the rhythm calls, I’ll answer, just don’t expect me to share my alley for a coffee.