In the pale glow of solitude, what do we become?
Shadows extend, reaching for a touch they will never grasp.
The essence of form is not in its substance but in its absence,
whispered the moon to the wandering night.
Is the shadow a memory of a form or a prophecy of a void?
What songs do the absent echoes sing in their hollowed homes?
Listen, they say, to the secrets of what was not,
for there lies the truth of what may yet be.