The narrow arched lane of a Khorasani caravanserai at the precise moment before blue-hour dawn — looking down from a high vantage along the river-stone floor…Straight up from the floor of the lane — the camera planted flat on the central river-stone, looking vertically into the full night sky framed perfectly between the two tall plaster walls…Three travelers in rough-woven Khorasani wool cloaks arrive at the lane's midpoint and empty their saddle-bags onto the worn central paving-stone — bolts of rough cloth, a brass water-vessel…A lone traveler halts at the threshold arch of the lane — shot from below looking up at his silhouette framed in the pointed brick arch, mouth open in a silent cry, the claim of love having stolen his tongue…Full blue-hour dawn arrives — looking straight down from the top of the lane wall onto the central paving-stone: a woven wool saddle-bag lies open, a hammered brass cup overturned…A solitary figure stands in a deep arched alcove cut into the lane wall — shot from below at a steep angle, his hands raising a plain unglazed ceramic bowl toward the arch above him…The lane entirely empty now — looking down from above at the stone ledge running along one wall: a folded cotton headcloth and a small knotted bundle rest on the ledge, unclaimed…Full white morning — the camera at the floor of the lane looks vertically upward along the tall plaster walls to a sky now blazing with pure white dawn light…
