The van chugs through the snow like a rusted time bomb, Headlights flickering, alive but reluctant. Santa’s hat droops over a face built for war— Half saint, half sinner, sucking down the cold through gritted teeth. The driver grins like a man who’s found his ticket out, Or maybe he’s just remembering a joke Told on a darker road, under darker skies. The windshield blurs the truth: The ice, the smoke, the silence. Two men on a pilgrimage to nowhere, Wrapped in gasoline prayers and exhaust fumes, Chasing salvation— Or maybe just the next stop sign.