Las Vegas Neon is the Strip after dark in 1960, before the corporate mega-resorts, when a single marquee could outshine the desert horizon and a font could gamble. Hot-pink and electric-cyan glass tubing traces cursive against dead-black night; googie starbursts explode off corners; thousands of amber chase bulbs blink in sequence. Nothing here is a flat surface — only a lit one. Every glyph is its own light source, wrapped in a colored bloom halo, floating in true black like the Fremont boneyard at midnight. The city got brighter after sunset, and this system means to buzz.