The city don't sleep — it just recharges rage. Third night, same curb, same shattered gauge on my wristwatch — time stuck at 2:11, when the false dawn leaks like a secret from heaven.
Night high 3, come set me free Or chain me to the radio frequency I don't care which — just make it mean Something more than the in-between
I'm standing in a 24-hour laundromat at 3 a.m., blood under my fingernails I don't remember earning. The fluorescent tubes buzz like trapped hornets. A woman in a pink bathrobe folds towels, humming a lullaby from my childhood. She looks up. night high 3
"My name," I say.
Don't let me come down… Not yet… One more mile… Night high 3… The city don't sleep — it just recharges rage
And the moon's a cheap tab Burning on my tongue Three nights climbing up the ladder Now the bottom rung
Streetlight static, low on gas Rearview shows a broken past Night one was a dare Night two, a scar Now the third one’s in the dashboard — humming like a car The fluorescent tubes buzz like trapped hornets
She smiles. "No. You left it with the other two nights. This one — you brought something back instead."