The neon throbs, an electric blue heartbeat against the storm's grey breath.
It hums: come, walk.
Philosophenweg.
The path of thinkers, of dreamers, of those who court the rain.
Each step a question whispered into the wind.
The trees, ancient and gnarled, hold no answers, only echoes.
They've seen it all before, these silent sentinels.
The rise and fall of hope, the ebb and flow of doubt.
You are here, now, a flickering flame in the vastness.
Don't be afraid of the dark spaces between the leaves, between thoughts.
That's where the light gets in.
Keep walking.
Even when the path is slick with rain, even when your breath catches in your throat.
This is the way of the philosopher, the seeker, the one who dares to live the questions.
The storm, too, will pass.
And when it does, you'll find yourself standing a little taller, a little stronger.
Transformed.
Just like the rain-washed world around you.
Luminous.
New.
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