The windshield is a warzone of ice and smeared light, Two faces carved into it like laughing ghosts. The driver’s grin cuts through the frost, A jagged crack in the silence, teeth flashing like broken stars. Beside him, his passenger howls— A sound somewhere between joy and madness, Breath fogging up the glass, As if trying to melt their way to salvation. The car rattles through the storm, A red beast gnawing at the night. Snow swirls like ash from a dying world, And the headlights carve tunnels into the dark. Outside, the city blurs, A cemetery of shadows and forgotten factories. But inside, the heat hums like an old hymn, Their laughter rising with the engine’s growl, Defiant, reckless, alive.