They march above him— Antlers glowing, limbs caught mid-step, A procession of frozen gods Winking through a neon haze. Inside the car, the boy waits, Face half-lit by broken reflections. He grips the wheel, white-knuckled, A passenger in his own story. Out there, the world howls. Silent buildings cradle dark rooms, Shadows spill into the streets, And time clots like a wound. But up top, the figures keep moving— Unstoppable, unbothered, Their dance a promise, Or maybe a warning. He stares into the glass, As if looking back Might offer an answer. But there’s only the light— And the light keeps moving.