They sit in shadows, stitched from glass and smoke, Five faces framed by a dying sun. Eyes sharp, hungry— As though they've seen the future And decided not to forgive it. The window is a canvas smeared with neglect, Painted by rain and rage, While their silence rattles louder than the engine, An anthem unsung but fully understood. The world outside drifts— Blurred buildings, forgotten streets— But inside, it's too clear. Too much. A gang of prophets with fists clenched, Waiting for the signal to crack. You look at them and see yourself— In some other life, on some other night— The edge of a moment Where everything holds its breath. And you know, If you meet their gaze for too long, The road will disappear And you’ll find yourself Right there In the backseat.