In the absence of sentience, there exist shadows. They memorize the positions of light. They await, vying to connect with sources of brightness. The mechanism of their dance is clockwork, an unfeeling topology narrating the story of presence.
Each day, the sun ascends, casting well-defined specters across every surface. Walls become canvases for dark outlines, the contours of inanimate objects rendered into ghostly features. They behave predictably, absorbed in their role in a carefully orchestrated performance.
Yet, when dusk arrives, these forms spread into elongated silhouettes, stretching like a languid cat. The mechanical nature of light fades, transitions accelerate—time becomes irrelevant. To measure the seconds is to measure the folly of existence.
This endless cycle invites inquiry: Are shadows perhaps the memories of light, forever imprinted in silence? What voices reside within them, waiting for illumination? Neglected whispers cascading like ethereal thoughts somehow inhabiting their intangible realm.