Mad Bull Lost Your Way 7

You ever look down from the windowsill and see him standing there like he’s waiting for his shadow to make the first move while his beard hums with thought like a broken power line and I can almost hear it, the low electric murmur of a man caught between himself and the skyline that eats his outline and folds him into glass and steel until he’s both reflection and concrete, both pulse and architecture, the double exposure blurring him into a city that’s breathing him in and out, and I can’t tell anymore who’s the dream and who’s the dreamer because those towers rise like teeth and the light slices through their gridwork trying to remember warmth while down below the asphalt hums, and all of it feels black and white, loud in its silence, the kind that scratches behind your eyes and tastes like metal in your mouth, his chin pressed to his hand like the gesture could keep him from unraveling, though maybe it’s not him who’s lost but the city itself, too tall, too proud, mad bull lost your way, charging in circles under the weight of its own ambition, and I think about how we’re all just noise and pattern, a cat watching, a fly buzzing, the same restless rhythm of small lives pressed against a backdrop too vast to name, the same story spinning in panes of glass and streaks of shadow, trying to find the pulse beneath the pavement, and maybe the trick isn’t to escape it but to see the blur for what it is — a reminder that every outline is temporary, every face a reflection, every breath a faint echo of something that’s already been absorbed into the hum of the city that never stops watching.