Through streaked glass, ghosts march, A carnival blurred by distance and doubt. Flares of crimson and electric blue— A scene too alive to feel real. Fingers grip the wheel, Knuckles white against the dark. The passenger’s face, half-lit, Unfolds like a map with no destination. Out there, music hums, Laughter folds into static, Figures dissolving into a watercolor night. Inside, the silence thickens, Two shadows staring forward, Drifting through the noise, But never arriving.