Ngo Meng is a great contemplator . He often walks , deep in thought , through the streets of Paris , black shoes drawn firm by orange laces , the soft slapping of his soles on wet pavement . The sky gives way to the city , the silence gives way to sound , and the cool smell of rain drips over the warm scent of baking bread . People mill about , lost in their own lives , contemplating their own things . One cannot begin to wonder what Meng may be thinking as he breathes this all in , the study of his mind not something one can simply know .
But in the fray of voices and car engines , the burst of pigeons taking flight and people pushing by , collars high against the wind , there is one sound that only Meng will hear … a short , momentary , click . And there , in that moment , his vision if fragmented , frozen for all of time . A singular piece of his observation , a shrewd examination of his surroundings , now in his keeping , something to share , humbly , unobtrusively and beautifully .