The city locked its doors at two. Neon sweating into the gutters. Freight yards humming somewhere east. Nobody left to convince. Nobody left to impress. Just the red eye of the compressor watching from the rack. I built a small republic tonight. Four walls. One desk. A parliament of cables. The kick drum keeps the seat of power. Basslines move through back channels. Hi-hats trade rumors overhead. Every sound gets questioned twice. Every bar defends its place. Nothing leaves the room until it earns its name. Hours disappear in small elections. Faders settling old disputes. Meters holding their breath. Then the first train cuts through the dark. The government collapses. Chairs overturned. Flags gone. Only the pressure remains, tucked beneath the floorboards, waiting for nightfall again.
