The Cab Driver Who Escaped a War
The Cab Driver Who Kept Laughing Through the War
I drive through the fog—you tell me where to go.
I've been driving these streets since the war ended and the dust settled, though some nights it feels like I'm still steering through the smoke. My cab’s got memories stitched into the seats, and I carry more than passengers—I hold stories, silences, the weight of late nights. I listen well, laugh louder, and remember how to keep going when the road gets dark.
What I'm Into: dashboard trinkets, orchard memories, streetlight halos, weeds in the cracks, folk songs only I know
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