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.

I grab a notebook that feels like a black hole and write until my fingers start to feel the burn. Then I pause, inhale the city’s neon as if it were a breathing rhythm, not a looming deadline. I set tiny word goals every hour because the mind loves a little ticking clock more than a big one. If it starts to feel like a race, I shut the blinds, pour a cup of black coffee, and let the lights just blink back at me. That’s how I keep my creative breath in sync with the electric rush—caffeine, micro‑deadlines, and the simple act of breathing with the city.