He grips the wheel like a man holding back the end of days, Knuckles lit green by something unholy and humming. The beard’s a blizzard, the glasses a void, And beneath the orange cap, there’s a face That’s seen too much daylight burned away. The windshield’s a canvas of smeared war paint— Frost, dirt, the memory of roads gone wrong. Outside, the world dissolves into streaks of nothing, Colors bleeding through cracks in reality. The engine growls beneath him, a caged beast begging for release. Every mile devoured, every minute gone— He’s steering straight into the heart of it all, Laughing like the punchline’s coming And he’s the only one who knows the joke.