A man who’s never found peace is kind of like a chasing parked cars. He runs full speed at anything shiny, loud, or promising, not because he knows what he’ll do when he gets there, but because standing still feels worse. He’ll bark, bite, scratch — convinced that motion means meaning. One dream, then the next. One woman, one job, one night, another. And when he finally catches something? He just stares at it, puzzled, restless, already sniffing out the next thrill. The truth is, it’s never really been about the car. It’s the silence that scares him. The stillness. Because if he stops long enough, he might have to admit he doesn’t know what he’s chasing. And by then, the world’s already moved on — someone else takes the leash, and the game ends.

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