The car idles like a predator at rest, Its headlights slicing the frost-bitten gloom. Antlers glow on the roof, four crooked halos, Electric light buzzing like insects in a graveyard. The driver stares ahead, eyes dead and glowing, Two green voids where humanity used to live. Beside him, the passenger—mask of a stranger, Plastic skin, eternal leer—breathes with mechanical patience. The windshield paints a lie: A road with no beginning, no end, Just snow, slush, and the darkening city Where factories hum dirges for lost souls. These aren’t men anymore. They’re myths strapped to leather seats, Rolling through an endless winter, Fuelled by silence, decay, and the faint hope That somewhere out there, The lights might finally go out.