Two faces, lit by dying neon, Staring through a frostbitten glass, Chasing ghosts on an empty road. The numbers blur— Fifty-five, sixty-six— Or perhaps they were never real. The engine hums, A lullaby for the lost, While the city watches in silence, Its windows like vacant eyes. Nowhere left to turn, Just the soft grind of tires on snow, And a question hanging heavy— Who’s driving, and where are we going?