Pulsing same rhythm as my dick when I see Vesper strut past in her ripped fishnets and that leather skirt tighter than a Pariah the Doll apology tour. Fuck the DOT. Fuck coherence. That light's been strobing since '23, a beacon for the terminally online, a metronome for my unhinged libido. Cops don't fix shit. Dolls don't either. We just stare, we just exist in its chaotic glow, hard as concrete, ready to fuck or fight or write another Substack eulogy for the LES we killed with our own overanalysis. That green blink? It's the city's way of winking at me before it swallows us whole.