The neon hums like a tired god, A cracked beacon in the wasteland. Letters missing, light flickering— ROTE_ 66. He slouches behind the wheel, Glass lenses hiding sleepless eyes, Jaw locked, breath fogging the night As he stares into nowhere. The sign burns behind him, An echo of promises it never kept, Rooms for the lost, Beds for the forgotten. Out here, time folds, And the road twists itself in knots. But he stays— A shadow in the driver’s seat, Waiting for the next exit that never comes.