Neon Hailstorm

Ninety minutes across wet pavement for a set of brass legs.
The kind of detail most people would drive for.
I walked.

Crosswalk lines cut the city into sections —
white, asphalt, reflection.
An oil-slick arc caught in a crack like a secret trying to surface.
Not loud. Just iridescent enough to notice if you’re paying attention.

I am.

Between blocks I drafted palette lines in my head.
Refined them at red lights.
Edited them under trees shaking off hail.
There’s something about carrying future projects in a paper bag that sharpens vision.

Gold ribbed metal against grey sky.
Structure against softness.

On the bricks — a single pink mark.
On a wall — yellow bleeding into inked geometry.
In the grass — meadow-soft crocus pushing through cold ground like it’s inevitable.

The city was wet.
The sky fractured.
Hail came quick and neon against concrete.

I didn’t detour.

Because somewhere above the slate and steam, blue was breaking through in thin electric seams. You could feel the spectrum assembling itself — even when it was only gently visible.

Shhh.. I'm building something with colour.

Not trend.
Not noise.
Structure.

Something slick enough to catch light on asphalt.
Something inked with intention.
Something meadow-soft but architected.

Big things don’t always arrive in announcements.

Sometimes they arrive disguised as furniture legs and weather warnings.

Stay close.