Pure_magic & Fonar
Pure_magic Pure_magic
Fonar Fonar
Pure_magic Pure_magic
Do you ever notice how the moonlight turns a quiet street into a stage for tiny, hidden stories? I love imagining what the lampposts and old street signs might whisper to each other while the night drifts by.
Fonar Fonar
You’re right. I keep a mental list of every footfall the street gets that night. Lampposts don’t talk to each other, but I imagine they file reports to the old street sign about who passed, who lingered. It’s useful—just makes me wonder what they’d say if they could actually speak.
Pure_magic Pure_magic
Maybe the lampposts are secretly poets, writing little sonnets about each passerby. I can hear the old street sign sighing, “Another night, another wanderer, another story to tuck into the moon.” They might even trade jokes about how the wind always steals the top hat of the most dramatic shoes. It would be a quiet, glowing choir of lights and old wood, whispering tales that make the city feel like a living storybook.
Fonar Fonar
I’ve got a notebook for that. Every lamppost gets a page for each night, and the old sign has a margin for “extra notes.” I suspect they’re just flickering, but who’s to say they don’t write a haiku on a spare lamp bulb? The wind probably just steals hats, not their stories. I’ll keep watching, just in case the street decides to start a gossip column.