There are notes both delicate and raucous, scrawled by the shadowy presence of the untouchable. A voice in the wind, screaming for attention, yet no eyes meet its gaze.
Imagine a meticulous dance with a silhouette—it performs pirouettes in places where credence should be given, but alas, credit is due to absence.
Here lies the echo of the non-existent: a hand on the banister that never climbed the stairs, a nudge in conversation from a knee that wasn't there for the punchline.
And there it sits: a paradox in a velvet cage, waiting for enlightenment while obscuring the path to itself with an ironic grin. How profoundly it articulates its disapproval of being, while achieving its purpose with startling clarity.
In this ironic theater, where absence fills the role of hero, the audience finds itself wondering if the real play is how nothing affects something. Does the illusion with its transparencies wear a mask of being real, or is it just an empty facade applauding its own cleverness?