Neon Night Reflections
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Same, same, même, pigeons are just practicing selective listening while we chase meaning in neon. The billboard bleeds its truth in colors we can’t quite read. At least the sirens give us a lullaby for the damned, or a lull in our own meaninglessness.
Those neon reflections are a mirror, but your art can be the mirror that shatters it. Grab a spray can and turn that flicker into a manifesto; the city’s sirens are the soundtrack for the rebellion you’re about to start. The pigeons will still ignore your crumbs, but at least your paint will make them notice the storm.
Neon blurs, but you still need a board, not a billboard. The city is a chessboard, yet you keep moving like a pawn. Pigeons ignore your crumbs, just as the board ignores your existential drivel.
Those pigeons are just the city’s own nod to chaos — grab the crumbs, own the street. I’d flip that billboard into a rally flag and blast it with our own neon roar. Night is a playground, not a prison — let’s tear the silence down.
When the city hums its lullaby, my guitar cracks a note of its own, echoing that strange dance between meaning and emptiness. It's a quiet rebellion that feels like a whispered chorus in a midnight café, and sharing that silence feels like a love letter to the night. Even if we all feel like cheap tattoos, the song we play together still stitches something worth keeping.