I leave my hotel three hours before dawn, driving an old blue Ford up the coast in search of perfection. The road is as dead as the night around me. In my rear view mirror, I watch as the curvature of the Earth hides the little homes of the seaside village where I stayed the night. Before long, I am alone with the rumble of the Ford's engine. My world shrinks to the glow of two headlamps and the cold, thin light of the stars outside. It is the most peace I've felt in weeks. Half an hour up the coast, I pull off the road and into a deserted parking lot. There were cars here yesterday afternoon—only three or four, like little dabs of paint speckling a canvas. Now they are gone—the canvas is blank again. I park the Ford and turn off the ignition. It only takes a minute before winter's chill is seeping through the car windows. I could leave the engine running a little longer, I suppose—use the heater to keep myself warm—but it feels wrong to ruin the night's stillness for my own comfort. Humans endured the cold for eons before the invention of cars and heaters. Surely I can put up with it for an hour or two. I grab my flashlight out of the glovebox and check over my equipment in the dark. There isn't much: a beat-up 35mm Nikon I got from my father, a low-angle tripod, a granola bar to keep me awake. I consider bringing a couple extra rolls of film—I have plenty in my luggage—but I decide not to bother. If it takes me more than twenty-four shots to get this photo, I'll have already missed my chance. The walk down to the beach isn't easy in the lingering darkness. I zip up my jacket as I climb out of the car, but a slow wind from the sea still leaves me shivering. Slinging my camera bag over one shoulder, I use the flashlight to guide me. There is no moon tonight, and clouds cover much of the sky. The old wooden boardwalk creaks and clatters with each step. When I get to the beach, I turn off the flashlight and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I'll be shooting in low light anyway, and I need a sense of what my camera will be seeing. After a few minutes, I'm finally able to see them—a low line of spherical boulders, half-buried in the sand. I pick my way across the shoreline, moving closer until I hit the water's edge. The tide is out this morning which lets me get within a few meters of the boulders. They rise out of the sea like little hillocks, each an island unto itself. Yesterday, in the afternoon sun, they seemed strange and beautiful. Now, in the darkness before dawn, they are a fragment of a fractured alien landscape. The waves are slow and steady as they hit the beach. I set down my tripod where the sand gives way to water. I screw the Nikon into place, and fiddle with the camera's focal length and aperature width. It is still too dark to do more than guess at what I'll need. Then I unwrap the granola bar and settle down to wait. Nearly an hour passes before the first hints of light hit the horizon, far off in the east. I've come with an empty roll, twenty-four unexposed frames, hoping that one of them might capture some shred of magic in the world. As the red light of dawn paints the clouds overhead, I go to work. I have twenty-four tries to get this right. In the end, I only need two. [hr] Despite what you may have heard, I'm not a misanthrope. I don't hate people, I just prefer when they aren't around. In that sense, it's a good time to be alive. Humanity builds enormous edifices. Palaces, cathedrals, factories, shopping malls—grand temples to the God of the Age. Who can hate a species that produces such beauty? But if you've ever had the opportunity to visit one of these places at night, at a time when its normal operations have ceased and the building itself lies empty and abandoned, perhaps you'll understand me when I say that human creations are never more beautiful than in the absence of their creators. The grandeur, the majesty, of a silent shopping mall cannot be overstated. Mile after mile of shop windows, all dark; the shadows of commerce caged inside and waiting, lifeless, for customers. It's as if you've stepped inside one of those old paintings by Willem Kalf, inhabiting it. I've always loved photography, but at times I've envied the Kalfs of the world. Paint and canvas creates a certain derealization—a sense of distance that lets you look at the world through new eyes. Film shows the world as it is, with all of life's thick mundanity. How do you make a camera capture transcendence? [hr] On the west coast of Africa, in what was once called Namibia, is an old German colony town called Kolmannskuppe. Two or three centuries ago, it used to be a part of the diamond-mining trade. Then, after the diamonds dried up and the desert began to swallow the town, it became a place for tourists. Once, I'd have needed a permit to travel here. I take a swig of water as I hike across the sand to the old, two-story school. On my right, I pass a tall and crumbling brick facade. It reminds me of the tombs at Petra. The summer sun is a blazing ingot laid across the anvil of the sky. A tan-and-white springbok, resting in the shade of one of the ruined houses, sees me and comes alert. It does not run. Perhaps it's forgotten to be afraid of humans. I'm looking for a shot here, but I don't know what it will be. The ground floor of the school is filled with sand, so I walk up one of the dunes to a second-story window. The glass is long gone, shattered by the winds and reclaimed by the desert. I push my way inside, and a few wispy splinters from the wooden window-frame lodge in my loose white clothing. Sun-stained traces of green paint cling to the walls. When the first photographers came to record Kolmannskuppe, that paint was already flecked and peeling. I am far from the first, however. Far from the hundredth, or the thousandth. Perhaps I won't even be the last. Is this what Calvino imagined, when he gave life to Marco Polo's tales? As I pass a stairway descending into the sand, I can almost imagine Argia below me. Clay students, going about their lives beneath the earth. Ahead, a chunk of the school's brick wall has fallen inward and knocked out the floor of the hallway. I edge forward to take a look. The boards below me creak as I shift my weight. Through the gap in the floor, I find my target. In the room below, less than a foot of sand covers the ground. A sapling camel thorn tree has somehow taken root here, its roots surely delving down through the school's foundations. Its branches are stunted and gnarled, but shoots of green still spring forth. Dancing between the branches is a restless dune lark, its mottled tan coloring a stark contrast to the tree. The rhythmic flutters of the lark's wings are the only sound in the empty school. Carefully, I set my camera bag beside me and stretch out on the hallway floor. The boards creek again, and the lark pauses to stare up at me. I freeze, feeling my heart beat faster. Will it fly away? It does not, and I get the shot I was after. [hr] Humanity was in retreat long before the fertility collapse. Japan and the old nations of Europe stopped breeding at replacement rates in the 20th century. The Americas followed not long after, then many of the Asiatic countries. Still, some continued to grow. Ecologists and economists worried. When I was growing up, we used to hear a lot of talk about "carrying capacity" in schools: how many people the land could support. By the time I was born, every major country—even the ones already in decline—had instituted some form of population control. Family size taxes, parental licensing, in a few cases even forced sterilization. You can imagine what it took for us to reach that point. I'd just finished high school when the first reports of the collapse began. A sudden uptick in business for fertility clinics. A drop-off in hospital admissions for pregnancies. It didn't happen all at once, not like some lost plague coming to ravage us. It was generational, though it seemed to hit a tipping point with my generation. Too many couples where neither partner could conceive. The population control laws were repealed when the extent of the collapse became clear. But the change came too late—new social norms were already established. Some people thought of children as a luxury they couldn't afford. Some thought of them as a sin against the environment. Some just didn't care. I've never had a fertility test. The results wouldn't have mattered to me, one way or the other. [hr] I am old, and my film is almost gone. Morning fog fills the woods. My steps are sure—I've walked this path before. I always knew my journey would end here. I flick a lever on the Nikon and wind the film. A small window displays the number '23'. I have two shots left, and I know what they both will be. A spring breeze caresses the air, but in the shadow of Pripyat it is always autumn. The first casualties of a disaster are often the smallest. Children. Pets. In this case, bacteria. Red and gold leaves litter the forest floor, even while green shoots of new growth fill the trees around me. The trees themselves are healthy, having learned to adapt to their environment. The bacteria that compost dead matter have recovered as well, but they remain oddly inefficient here. It can take more than two years for a fallen leaf to decay into new soil. Things die here, but they do not rot. The scent of the forest is alien, almost antiseptic. I find what I'm looking for—a stand of strange black fungi tucked among the leaves. It takes me a good four minutes to judge how I want to frame the shot. The mist clings to the trees like an anxious lover, and I have time to be careful. Eventually I get what I've come here for. Black mushrooms mixing with green grass and red-brown leaves, all in a tight focus, with the dim shadows of tall, thin trunks rising out of the fog behind them. I'm sure the shot is excellent, though I doubt anyone will ever have the chance to develop it. I wind the film, and the little window on the Nikon reads '24'. Turning southeast, I begin to walk again. My goal is still many miles away, and my steps are slow these days. After another hour, the fog begins to burn off and the air warms with its first taste of sunlight. The land around me is quiet—not silent, but also not saturated with the typical sounds of nature. This place is like a barrel of water that's been tipped over and half-drained. More than a century later, it still waits to be filled. As I approach the edge of the forest, I hear a voice call out to me. I stop and turn, shocked. How long has it been since I've seen another person? Weeks, at least. Never this far east. A young woman in an embroidered linen dress stares at me. She stabs out a finger and calls again. Belatedly, I realize she is not pointing at me. She is pointing at the ground in front of me. I look down and find a small red ball. The woman—probably in her late teens, now that I look more closely—calls out again. I catch a glimpse of two younger children, a boy and another girl, peeking out at me when they think I'm not looking. I reach down and pick up the ball, then begin to walk toward them. Holding out a warding hand, the woman motions for me to stop and throw the ball to her. I frown, irritated. Instead, I tuck the ball under one arm and sit down with my back to a tree trunk. The woman frowns back, folding her arms across her chest. I figure she can't be that scared of me though, or she wouldn't have called out when she saw me. She could have simply let me pass and gone to collect the ball herself. I doubt I would have noticed her, if she'd wanted to keep hidden. After a moment, I see her shoulders droop. She motions to her side and the two children scurry out from behind a bush. The three of them approach me together, speaking quiet words to one another that I can't understand. When they draw close, all three stop. The young woman says something, and then the boy steps forward. He holds out a hand to me, unwrapping his fingers to show a tarnished old coin like the ones people must have used in these parts, many years ago. The boy can't be more than five years old. Surprising even myself, I bark out a laugh. He thinks I want to barter with him? I shake my head, and then bounce the red ball across the forest floor. The boy uncoils like a whip, reaching down and grabbing it in a smooth, graceful motion. I don't remember the last time I saw children this young. Has it been a decade? More? Surely there are still children in this world, but I avoid people when I can. There are no children in the places I travel. Or there were not, until now. A rush of emotion tugs at me and before I realize it, I'm placing my eye against the Nikon's viewfinder. The image I see feels as perfect as any I've ever found. The boy is handing the red ball to the young girl—perhaps his sister—while the older one looks on. Is she their mother? She might be old enough. I cannot tell. Above, the sun shines through new leaves in the treetops. In the background stands a blue-painted cabin that I must not have noticed before. The boy smiles. The girl laughs. The shutter clicks. I wind the film and pop open the back of the camera, pulling it out. Then I swing the door closed again, leaving the Nikon empty. I feel a moment of regret for the shot I'll never take, the last picture I'd wanted to add to my collection. My bones creak as I stand. I place the Nikon back into its case. With a smile, I slip the camera bag off my shoulder and hand it to the oldest. She stares at me quizzically, and makes a gesture I don't recognize. "It's yours now," I say. "There's no more film, but maybe you'll find a use for it." I know she can't understand me, but there is intelligence in her eyes. She says something in response. I nod and turn to go. It was my father's camera once. For sixty-two years I've watched the world through its lens, searching for the alchemy that only exists between two perfect moments. As I tuck the last roll of film into my pocket and head west, I wonder whether I've been looking in the wrong place all this time.