The sun rises on the places we call home. Places where, without thinking, without trying, we are the versions of ourselves we dream of being in private, quiet moments. Where we can walk into a shop, a barbers, a playground, a nightclub and forget that we are not always free.

The sun rises on the solar farms scattered across the rising peaks of London's forested hills. Already the queues for the energy banks are winding through the trees, children sitting on generators heaved by their older siblings.

The sun rises on newly built 3-D Printing Community Workshops. Inside, once skilled, now shaking hands fumble with touch-screen devices. They will return home clutching a bespoke clock, a lifetime of work and craftsmanship distilled into the brilliance of neural network construction.

The sun rises to the sound of Bhangra blasting from fishmongers speakers. To the slams of fists against bus doors drawn unfairly. To the rattle of delivery drones hovering above expectant households. To the majesty of the call to prayer. The chorus of the market sellers.

The sun rises on the grateful faces of sisters, fathers, preachers and prisoners. On wary faces shielding themselves from the heat of an unmitigated sun and the glare of face-recognition CCTV cameras. Faces hidden as posters are pasted down and banners are raised up. Faces obscured by tears, as they celebrate loved ones victories and lament their bitter struggles.

The sun rises on all of these faces, defiant as they rise like weeds through cracks in the concrete.