He sits behind the wheel like a king with nothing left to rule, A mask of gold stretched across his face, flaking at the edges— Somewhere between a carnival and a funeral. His hands grip the wheel loosely, like he's daring fate to take it from him. The suit, red as blood and twice as heavy, Sags at the shoulders, a throne-room robe in a crumbling kingdom of chrome and glass. Behind him, a blur of red and green bobs in and out of focus, A passenger—or a ghost—cloaked in holiday cheer gone rotten. They look forward, beyond the cracked windshield, Into a night that’s deep and empty, Where the road slithers like a serpent under streetlights That buzz and flicker with the last gasps of electricity. The silence inside is thick as oil, Broken only by the hum of an engine too tired to scream. This isn’t a drive—it’s a procession, A slow crawl through the wreckage of another year, A glittering mask smiling through the ash.