Every photographer knows the mathematics of golden hour without ever doing the arithmetic. The body learns it instead: a tension in the chest around 4:40 pm in November, a particular alertness.
We were on the roof of a building in Al Quoz. The city spread below us like a circuit board still being soldered. Everything was becoming something else.
In eleven minutes of usable light I made forty-three frames. Thirty-nine of them were wrong in ways that will teach me something later. Four of them were right in ways I still cannot fully explain.
Patience is just another word for faith in the moment that has not arrived yet.