He drives through the static hum, A red specter in a sea of asphalt and apathy. The windshield smears his face into abstraction, Every breath fogging up another bad decision. The steering wheel hums like an old hymn, Knuckles tight, veins alive— A pulse against the silence of empty streets And the headlights that never blink back. Somewhere past the edge of the map, Where the road gives up, He’ll find what’s left of himself— Or at least a place to disappear.