Fractured Neon

A surface once whole lies in quiet ruin, obsidian planes interrupted by slender veins of green light. As if something perfect fractured long ago, and now only the outline remains—sharp, precise, and humming with a low, electric memory. The glow doesn't scream; it persists, like a thought you can’t quite shake, illuminating the edges of absence. Green lingers beneath the black, restrained and surgical, almost mournful. It traces paths that once connected, now pulled apart by something unseen. The shapes are deliberate, but there's hesitation in them—like architecture left unfinished, or a system that no longer knows its purpose. What was once solid now seems to drift, elegant in its collapse. There’s no urgency, only aftermath. No noise, only resonance. Something has ended here, beautifully—and what remains is geometry in mourning, structure bathed in the last light of its undoing.