I’m sitting on the back-porch above the rooftops, my D700 on the bench beside me and I look up at the sky, at the last light of day. On Samsonia, the setting sun is crawling the peaks of the row-houses as it struggles to stay awake. (In Aprigliano the day is asleep, settled into its cradle, breathing softly on its back and dreaming of tomorrow’s dawn.)

But on the North Side, in the northern latitudes, summer’s rays still color the twilight and yesterday’s clouds streak the indigo sky. Broadcasting tower and electrical wires write on the night-blue canvas. This is a city-scape. And here romanticism must undergo the over-paint of urban operatives; and here nostalgia is bleached of its sepia melancholy.

But espresso and Sambuca can soften these ragged edges and let the mind’s eye play in the dying light.