The road stretches ahead like a wound, Torn and bleeding under flickering headlights. Inside the car, the air hangs heavy — Stale smoke, gasoline dreams, and whispers Of promises no one ever believed. He wears the mask — A yellow grin carved from a nightmare, Eyes black as motel shadows at dawn. Beside him, she sinks, Cheek against the window’s ghost, Hair like fire spun in molasses, Her silence louder than the engine's idle hum. No words. Just the echoes Of something gone wrong, Long before they hit the gas. This ride is for the lost — For dead plans and counterfeit smiles, For motel neon stuttering VACANCY And strangers who don’t even ask why. Outside, the world blurs. Inside, they hold nothing, But grip it tight just the same.