Shadow Dances Beneath the Lamp Post

Have you ever seen a shadow hum? I mean, really hum, like all those songs from places you've never visited but feel they've written parts of your soul. Sit here with me, beneath this old lamp post, and listen closely. The city rarely keeps silence, but at night, when the neon sighs and the cars become echoing dreams, the shadows let loose their fleeting moments.

A silhouette sways, whispering tales of far-off lands. Once, I met a faceless entity here who claimed to know all the city's secrets. "Junctions have hearts," it rasped softly, "and your path hums a tune only they hear." Ever since, I watch these silhouettes, trying to decode their dances, their silent gestures.

Friends often joke that I'm one of those people who collect fragments of murmur. Maybe that's true. Maybe it isn't. But isn't it funny? Each whispered fragment I gather, it seems, bleeds into the tapestry of one's night, stitching memories with echoes unseen. Perhaps all we need to learn, I think, is how to dance with them, how to let them mold us like clay in an unseen artist's hands.