The Copper Pulse

The city breathes in low-voltage hums, a steady vibration through the soles of boots. Beneath the asphalt, copper veins pulse with the frantic thoughts of a million screens.

Streetlamps cast amber pools on empty corners, buzzing like trapped hornets in glass jars. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and the ghost of a thunderstorm that never broke.

Wires sag between leaning poles, heavy with the weight of unsent messages. They are the harp strings of the wind, playing a melody only the sleepless can hear.

Everything is tethered by invisible threads, a web of light spun across the dark. We are the sparks jumping the gaps, living in the silence between the heartbeats.