Yeah, I’ve chased neon ghosts through the dark streets, trying to catch that blurry, electric pulse before it fades. It’s like the city’s breathing, and I write it into a paper that’s still breathing—only the breath is an impending deadline and caffeine. The lights look like a million tiny alarms, reminding me that the clock is ticking faster than my typing fingers, and I end up scribbling something that looks like midnight poetry and a half‑finished thesis, all wrapped in a sarcastic grin.