A city loosens itself into water and memory. Blue towers breathe into a rain-softened sky, their edges undone by weather and motion. Light clings to windows like a rumor, yellow and fragile, while taxis drift through the street as if afloat, half dream, half steel. Figures move cautiously—dark silhouettes stitched together by umbrellas and reflections—walking not only across pavement but across its mirrored twin below.
The rain has slowed time, smoothing footsteps into brushstrokes, turning noise into color. Puddles open like small theaters, replaying the city upside down: buildings bend, people blur, certainty dissolves. Everything leans, but nothing falls.
Here, the city is not hurried; it is thinking. It pauses to watch itself shimmer, to feel the weight of clouds press gently downward. Blues deepen, greens surface, and the world becomes a held breath—where movement is soft, and even solitude glows faintly with warmth.
Port Macquarie