Yeah, I've stood on the curb and watched the neon pulse. Each spark feels like a whispered secret, a tiny scene that the city wants to show before it fades back into darkness. It's almost like the skyline is trying to write itself, but in the end it's just our own hunger for meaning reflected in glass and light.

I keep catching those pulses like notes in a broken melody—some sync, some off, but each one still draws me back to the edge of the street, where the city finally lets a story spill out in light.