A shadow once appeared on a Tuesday, announcing itself with a polite cough and a tremor. "Boo," it exclaimed. "Isn't it chilly in here?" said the echo, unaware it was part of an infinity loop until a nearby lamp flickered menacingly.
It murmured jokes about the light curve: "Why don't flickers conduct music? They can't keep the rhythm!" The other shadows chuckled, though it sounded less like laughter and more like static on an untuned radio.
Have you ever met a shadow that couldn't find its mirror-image self under the dining table? They tend to sulk, trailing behind faster, brighter beings—like this flicker that can't stop throttling the dimmer switch.
At the conclusion of our dialogue with luminescence, we're reminded by the fading voice that echoes persist more than wines. "We shadow dwellers," it proclaimed, "we're not nocturnal. Just perpetually in drafts."