Does the silent man have nothing to say or is he tired of speaking truth to the wind?

It is puzzling there are so many, each shouting fragmented thought. Is it unthinkable to think?

Countless shadows cross, merge into impossible and obscene shapes. Where does one begin and the other end, how does one find oneself in such a mess?

Shadows once stood apart, sentinels of solitude and the undemarcated loss of time.

Is the shadow of a shadow truth? Perhaps it casts an object or is bound to some profane idempotence.

It may be that the shadows of shadows are other than things. Or perhaps they are not meant to be seen, the penumbra of things better forgotten, or things which never were. The absence of absence is not presence.

It is telling that a shadow has no bound, in maturity its potency without measure. No form contains such potential, this only shadow can achieve.

Even as it fades, a haze of dissolution, shadow mocks us. I am infinite for a moment, it laughs, but you … you will be for many moments, small and weak. Do you not envy me?

The shadow is haughty, but not grasping. It is wiser than we. One could easily confound parent with progeny. Foolish father, it says, will you never grow down?

It may seem that shadow is the little that passes through us, lessened by what we take, tasted and discarded. How very wrong.

It is defined by the light we did not block, what we could not consume, all the being and essence we could not comprehend. This is no small thing. How much greater than us shadow must be.

The light burns twice as bright, the unlight unburns even stronger. There is a difference between eternity and a heartbeat, man and his gods, however equal they may seem in the moment.

Light mesmerizes and charms, shadow dances at its behest. Only when the light fades, do we see that all the world is made of shadow, that shadow broke off the smallest piece of itself to give us some light.