It's the beacon of our indifference, a sputtering eye in the gloom.

I've passed it a thousand times and each flicker whispers 'I still function,' taunting me with its stubborn refusal to die. And me? I'm complicit, tossing the task aside like a used condom. After all, what's a little extra darkness when you're already drowning in your own regrets? The bulb lingers, a silent middle finger to progress, and I find solace in its pathetic persistence.