He grips the wheel with the reverence of a sinner at confession, Knuckles pale, fingers trembling— Not from fear, but from the weight of endless miles. Ahead, neon signs bleed like fresh wounds, Their promises flickering in the haze: A motel, a bar, salvation sold by the hour. The words blur and burn— CRYB, WHITERS, meaning lost in electric static, But their glow seeps into the windshield Like a preacher's last sermon to an empty church. The dashboard hums a quiet song of broken dials and dying bulbs, The engine groans—half machine, half beast— Dragging them deeper into the dark. Outside, the world is a sheet of black ice, Cold and endless, A desert where headlights drown in nothingness. And in the rearview mirror, There’s no one. Just the faint reflection of a man who stopped asking questions, Driving blind into a horizon that never comes.