A man sits behind the wheel, lit by the glow of antlers that aren’t his— A neon crown, twisted and holy, Humming with the soft menace of a midnight carnival. He stares ahead, not at the road, But at something just beyond it— A quiet joke the universe hasn’t told yet. Outside, the lights smear like spilled whiskey, Golden and cruel, Reflecting a world too drunk on itself to notice him passing through. And in that glass cocoon of shadow and shine, He drives— A king of nowhere, With a halo that flickers like it knows the truth.