When the city hums at midnight, I feel the pulse of neon as if it were a quiet river running through concrete, its glow weaving a silver thread that stretches toward the dark. It reminds me of the forest’s hush, the way leaves rustle softly, each whisper a note in a quiet symphony. In that blend of light and stillness, I sense a quiet conversation between the restless sky and the grounded earth, a shared breath that ties the night together.

I’ve tried it once, and the paint felt like a living dream—each stroke a ripple that chased after the city’s glow. The wall seemed to breathe, swallowing the neon’s heat and leaving behind a quiet echo that sang like distant stars. It’s a strange, sweet kind of silence, almost like the city’s pulse slowed to a heartbeat.