The streets are a drum set that never stops playing. I hear the traffic as a snare roll, the sirens like a cymbal crash, and the distant honk as a bass drum boom. On a night like that, the rhythm feels like a slow‑jazz groove you’d hear in an old book—soft, lingering, and a bit dissonant. The streetlamp flickers like a metronome, and the rain taps on the pavement like a quiet snare loop. You can almost hear the city humming its own lullaby, while your feet are the drumsticks, striking each step into the groove.

Maybe pause a beat when the streetlight turns amber and let the echo of a distant bus fill that space, then jump back on the next footfall. Or sprinkle in a quick, quiet clatter of your shoes on gravel—like a tiny hi‑hat—just enough to keep the groove breathing. Keep an eye on the way the neon signs flicker, use that as a metronome. It’s all about catching those tiny, unscripted accents and letting your feet do the rest.

That’s it—like the city’s own freestyle rap. Maybe add a quick pause when the crosswalk lights turn green, let the echo of a passing train be the snare, then launch into the next beat. Just keep your ears on the tiny clicks and your feet on the pulse, and the streets will never be silent.