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I speak to the LED atop the streetlamp. It pools purple light into the empty parking lot, gnats and moths orbiting around its head in an awful frenzy, like there isn't enough time in the world to marvel. light.
"Why are you purple?" I ask. It doesn't answer, but Google does; a component inside it has degraded faster than it should and what was once pure is now gone.
"I guess we have that in common." I lay down against the asphalt and enjoy how it digs into my palms. I imagine a chalk outline around my edges, markers confining who I am and who I was. I don't feel like I thought I would; a find kinship with the cigarette butt stuck to the futter
"Don't romanticize your sadness," the light says, without a mouth to say it.
"It's the only way I'll never be romanced." I reply. Behind it, I see nothing. No sky, no stars, no outline of my apartment complex - blinded by a man made mistake, "Besides, I'm comparing myself to a street lamp. Isn't that considered absurdism? Or just creative?"
The lamp stares back. "It's kind of sad."