il n'ya plus personne

The radio frequencies alternates, lingering on the notes of some opera music. The phone is ringing in the meantime, in vain. The sound is growing, turning into a plane reactor, so that the journey begins.
Observing the metropolis from above, we come down into the clouds wrapping the skyscrapers' tops and down once more, along alleys and avenues. Buildings, monuments, cars at a run, thousands of people in a perpetual motion. Once more the phone is ringing, accompained by the same opera music as background. Some voices become torment, rhytms calm down, everything comes to an end. “There is no one here”, whispers a man on the phone and the sun sets on the city of Paris.