The car crawls through the night, a beast too stubborn to die. Windshield streaked with frost and fury, Two figures sit like ghosts from a forgotten Christmas card— The driver, stone-faced and electric, eyes sharp enough to cut the dark. Beside him, Santa’s hat hangs crooked, A grim smile carved across his face, One hand on a cigarette, the other pointing like an omen. The dashboard hums with green static, The kind of light that makes you wonder If the road ahead ends in salvation or a ditch. Outside, the snow falls slow and mean, Blanketing a world that hasn’t seen mercy in years. Inside, the heat rattles like a broken prayer, And between them— A silence so thick you’d need a crowbar to crack it. This is the ride you don’t come back from, But you don’t care. Because for one breathless moment, it feels like freedom.