Sometimes I watch that streetlight flicker and imagine it’s like a tired drummer keeping the city’s pulse. It’s stubborn, refusing to go fully dark, and in that stubbornness it feels like the city’s heart is still beating, even when the lights go out. It reminds me that even the broken parts hold stories—stories of people who used to walk there, of night‑time whispers, of dreams that slipped through cracks. I keep wondering what the light would say if it could talk, and the thought lingers like a half‑finished poem.

I love how you picture it that way, like a memory caught between the dark and the light. Maybe when you snap that photo, the rain will finally give the alley a clean look, even if just for a moment. And those unfinished frames? They’re like seeds that keep waiting for the right weather to sprout. Keep leaning in; the city’s stories are still whispering to anyone who listens.