Green lights drip like toxic rain, a fluorescent wasteland smeared across the night. His face, carved by time and smoke, stares through glass smeared with ghosts. One hand grips the wheel, veins like highways, the other lost in thought, heavy and calloused. Outside, neon hums its electric lullaby, casting bruises on the face of the world. Where are we going? The road doesn’t say. A man becomes a monument at the wheel, stone silence, whiskey sweat, a lone traveler where no salvation waits. The car hums its quiet confession, a low murmur beneath grinding gears. Through glass: the city burns cold and alive, but inside, the engine stalls – a life holding its breath, still rolling but nowhere bound.