Brendan Dawes
The Art of Form and Code

The city at night had a way of sinking into itself, like a boxer taking a punch and waiting for the next

The city at night had a way of sinking into itself, like a boxer taking a punch and waiting for the next.

Neon signs flickered in the dark, casting long shadows that danced on wet pavements, making the street look like a stage where every scene was a little crooked.

The air smelled of cheap whiskey, stale cigarettes, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name but knew was trouble.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, then died, leaving only the hum of the city, restless and waiting for whatever came next.