The streetlights don’t shine here, they just leak—Neon bleeds into the puddles like oil on a canvas.We’re all just ghosts in designer skins,Tracing the same blocks, waiting for the silence to make sense.Noon on the boards, Pezet in the lungs,The smoke curls up like a question no one’s brave enough to ask.Cold air, warm bass, and a city that never sleeps,But definitely knows how to dream in grayscale.We aren’t running from the past anymore;We’re just driving fast enough that it can't catch the rhythm.