Prologue

The night leans forward,
dressed in violet applause.
Feet slide across the wet glow —
a choreography of vanishing.

Body I

Law one: Identity blurs under neon.
Law two: Hats remember what faces forget.
Law three: Color travels faster than thought.

We glide in rhythm with ourselves,
coats whispering like secret treaties.
Each step erases the last,
each glance invents another century.
Blue bends into pink,
the horizon laughs softly in gradients.

Body II

“Are we still walking or already memory?”
asks one silhouette to another.
“Both,” says the streetlight,
“and neither when it rains.”

DADA Break

step–drip–clink–blink
fedoras float through syntax

Closing

The crowd dissolves into hue and hum.
The city folds itself for the night.
Tomorrow — same street, new ghosts.