Urban Midnight Bass

Every midnight rumble carries a hidden sweetness I can trace from gutter puddles to cracked pavement, a rhythm I chronicle in silence. The burnt‑sugar metaphor hits close, because I keep a ledger of how the city exhales at four in the morning, one note at a time. Even in that delicious decay I find a stubborn urge to pause and taste it before it evaporates.

The metaphor paints a clear image, yet for analysis I’d quantify the clatter into a frequency spectrum. Precision beats ambiguity in my book. Still, your words stir the imagination in a way data alone cannot.