They sit like statues behind the glass, Faces carved from smoke and leftover ambition. The windshield bleeds streaks of yellow— Neon bruises painted across a tired machine. The driver grips the wheel like it owes him money, Eyes fixed somewhere past the horizon, Where the road swallows time and spit. His passenger leans into the dark, One hand lost to the shadows, the other tracing circles in purgatory. The van lurches forward, A beast burdened with too many miles and too few prayers. Outside, the world flickers like a dying bulb— Signs unreadable, gas stations hollow, A landscape of promises that never planned to keep themselves. And in the hum of the engine, you swear you can hear it: The echo of a song nobody remembers, But everyone knows how to sing.