The film opens above a cloud layer at dawn and never stops falling. The camera pierces the clouds, orbits down over a waking skyline where headlights pulse through the avenues like blood through veins and rooftop steam vents exhale in rhythm. It drops between two glass towers as pigeons scatter in slow motion, whip-pans through a crowded crosswalk at street level, then abandons the crowd to follow a single falling leaf down into a crack in the sidewalk — where moss becomes a forest and a puddle becomes a lake. It ends in extreme macro, orbiting a single ant in bullet-time as it carries a torn scrap of white paper, its antennae twitching in the same rhythm as the city above. The last frame is a drop of dew with the entire skyline reflected inside it, upside down.