The lights burn like broken promises, Bleeding crimson and cyan into the oil-slick night. A place that isn’t real— A memory wrapped in exhaust fumes, Where the hum of electricity hums louder than thought. Figures move in the haze, Shadow puppets on the walls of the void, Too distant to see, Too close to forget. The car’s an animal here, A chrome beast swallowing asphalt, But going nowhere— Just circling the edge of the world As if there’s something left to chase. And above it all, the signs— Glowing antlers, Pointing in every direction but home.