I hear that ghost story and I’m already picturing the streets pulsing in teal and magenta as if the city itself is breathing. I’d paint a splash of midnight blue at every corner, then, oh look, the neon orange streetlights flicker like fireflies. It’s like the murals are whispering, “Hey, keep up!” And I swear, if I ever catch that ghost, I’ll trade a brush for a coffee, because espresso gives me that gritty texture I love. But don’t ask me about my birthday—forget that again, and I’ll just color the calendar in a riot of confetti.