Here’s a little love prose poem to my city:

Seattle at night is a quiet and magical place. The Space Needle watches over the city, cutting through the mist like a distant signal from the future. Below, the skyline glows—a sea of golden windows flickering like fallen stars, streets winding like veins carrying life through the heart of downtown. Out on Elliott Bay, the ferries drift like silent ghosts, their lights reflecting on the black water, gentle and slow. But further south, the port never sleeps. The cargo cranes stand as steel sentinels, their long arms reaching over the docks, loading and unloading the lifeblood of global commerce. Red warning lights blink at their tips, pulsing in the darkness like slow, mechanical heartbeats. The bay hums with movement—ships easing in from the Pacific, tugboats guiding them home, waves lapping against the piers. Seattle at night isn’t just stillness; it’s rhythm. The steady pulse of a city that never quite stops, even when the world feels quiet.

Daily Design: 312/366