He stands on the edge of nowhere, Wrapped in yellow like a warning, Eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses— The kind that see too much, The kind that know exactly where you've been. A neon flame sputters behind him, Casting his silhouette onto the night, As if the world itself Is trying to erase him, But can't quite finish the job. The windshield warps his face, A fractured reflection of intent, A ghost in technicolor. You wonder if he's real— Or just another mirage, Born of gasoline fumes and sleep deprivation. He's waiting for something, A ride, a chance, the apocalypse. And as you sit there, staring, You feel it: That creeping sense That he’s already inside the car. You could drive. But you know you won’t. Because men like him— Men in amber, Men without names— Are impossible to outrun.