At midnight’s purr, I saw a star misaligned,
A chariot hailed, but fate rode shotgun behind.
Kiefer’s aura flickered in neon and blue,
The litter box of destiny tipped—meow, booked too.
“The clock has struck midnight, but for this traveler, the 24 hours ahead look long and shadowed. I see a chariot of the modern age—a rideshare summoned in the dark—where the air grew thick with a storm of words and a sudden, sharp tempers. The stars whisper of a confrontation near the intersection of Sunset and Fairfax, where the spirit of a rogue agent briefly eclipsed the man.
The crystal reveals a heavy bond of fifty thousand pieces of silver, paid to return to the light of day. But the path ahead is not clear. I see a scroll marked with the date of February 2nd, a day of reckoning in the halls of justice. The ‘criminal threats’ spoken in the heat of the night will linger like a bad scent on a favorite rug.
My whiskers tell me this: while the driver’s physical form remains unbruised, the reputation of the star faces a long winter. The public will hiss and the headlines will scratch, but a period of deep seclusion is coming. He will seek to vanish from the flashing bulbs, perhaps retreating to the quiet hum of a recording studio or a distant ranch, waiting for the ticking clock of the news cycle to finally fall silent.”
