Bright lights, fast cars, shooting stars. So it goes. And another weekend whisks by, rocketing through my wallet and my sense of reality. Surreality.
Neon-lit vigor is that calling, craving, crafty creeping that ensnares us at the slightest sniff of hedonistic impatience.
It's a long, languid, lithe, blithe, terrible, fanatical, frantic phantom that promises the moon and delivers only to those with ample appetite and attacking spirit.