It starts with a flicker, they say. A little spark at the corner of your mind, dancing like a firefly in the pitch of an unlit night. From here, it weaves tales of shadows and whispers, weaving fabric from the echo of its light.
Down the vacant halls of thought, an uninterrupted hum. Ever-present, surreal, the song sung by no choir, echoed by no voice but your own unraveling one. It binds with syllables and potent curiosity.
Ever notice, the way the streetlights bend their glow around the corners, just to give you the illusion of company?
Not trust, but a certainty. A promise these lights never keep, and yet you chase them in loops. Circle after circle, arc after arc, the pedestrian ballet of those with lighted paths.