Welcome, spectator. Here lies the "battle" in the "colosseum," a dance of veiled truths and smoke-slick irony. Observe the echoes of silhouettes, fighting bravely against their own reflections. Who do you cheer for, when none have form?
Why care for gladiators, made of whispers and lazy lies? Their swords are quills, their shields slightly askew pieces of paper-in-shames. You'll find that here, in the arena of the intangible, happiness is the only casualty.
"Reflections of a battle previously won," claims the audience, or perhaps just the void alone with too much coffee.
In this shadowed arena, the cheap seats have never looked more appealing. Sit back, let the lightless light find you, and maybe—just maybe—the shadows will cast you away.