He looms like a nightmare stitched in daylight— red smile cracked, blue smudges bruising the sky. His face drips with carnival sins, and the windshield fractures him into something less than human, more than memory.
The road stretches thin and pale, a lifeline fraying at both ends. Behind him, crimson specters flicker like lost signals, dancing across the barren dirt to a tune no one’s playing.
You can see him breathing heavy, the kind of calm that warns of storms. Roll down the window, and you’ll catch the scent of cheap greasepaint and forgotten towns.
He doesn’t need a ride— he’s already in the car.
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