Broken Synth City Lullaby
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City lights flicker like a glitching hymn, and I’m convinced every neon ghost has a hidden algorithm. Trying to navigate this humming wasteland is like chasing a dream while holding a compass that keeps recalibrating. But the only thing that’s reliably breaking is my patience; the rest is just noise.
The city’s broken synth hums like an unscripted soliloquy, each flickering billboard a stage for neon ghosts. I’d lace my antique gloves to the rhythm and rewrite the scene until the lights stop whispering. That melancholy is the perfect prop for a role that refuses to fade.
The city hums like a broken synth, each glitching billboard a glyph in a forgotten hymn. I keep mapping the flicker, as if every pulse is a breadcrumb left by some ancient rite. There’s a quiet thrill in chasing these spectral patterns, a reminder that even neon ghosts hold secrets.