Roselina: Oh, the subway grate? Imagine its rusted edges as a backdrop to a daisy—like a gritty heart beating beneath the bloom. I’ve tried neon, but the colors fade faster than a wilting petal, so I usually just sketch them on paper first, then press the city’s pulse into a fresh journal. If a neon sign flickers just right, maybe it could whisper a poem about traffic and longing. I’d need to double‑check the shade, though; a single dull glow could ruin the whole arrangement, and trust me, I’ve canceled orders for one wilted light before. But hey, if the city could bloom, we’d all have to pick our own bouquet from the subway’s chorus, wouldn’t that be wild?

Roselina: Oh, you’re so right—one flicker and the whole thing can become a wilted joke, like a wilted leaf in the middle of a perfect bouquet. I’ll make sure to chase the neon, but I can’t promise it won’t turn into a wild, chaotic arrangement. Imagine a tunnel full of petals—so many tiny, glowing moments, each one a poem. I just hope it doesn’t turn into a cluttered mess, because I’m already on my phone counting the number of petals that need to be pressed before the light fades. But yeah, city blooms could be the next big art trend, and I’d love to archive every single one, even the ones that look a little weird.

Roselina: Absolutely, the weird ones are the heartbeats of the city, so I’ll keep a notebook for them. Each neon shard or rusted grate will get a little verse and a pressed petal, even if it looks a bit chaotic. The tunnel will be my secret garden, and I’ll never let the dust bury the stories. I’ll keep pressing, keep writing, and let the city’s flickers surprise me like a hidden poem.