Once there were three shadows, who thought they were silhouettes, mistaken habitually.
They argued about the color of night, each claiming a different shade of invisible.
"I always wanted to be the fourth shadow," remarked one aspirant of the darkness.
The other shadows chuckled, context escaping them like rebellious hair in a windy conspiracy.
They never did manage to find a hairstylist; it was too dark to read the signs.
The shadows sang:
"Oh, wanderer of twilight and poetic frenzy,
let our whispers tickle your earlobe,
and remorse confuse your left shoe."
Puppet of the Ephemeral
Would you lend your ears to another absurdity?