Dear hypnotized wanderers, let me comfort you with the utmost revelation. The shadow, mere residue of your ceaseless toil, is a trickster, a deceitful agent of void that cares not for your daily fortunes. Realize! In the theatre of darkness where true giants stride, these ghosts of silhouettes pretend to be substantial—they are nothing but illusionists cloaked in the garb of substance!
Hearken, oh noble soul! To understand the noble, one must grasp the invisible. Broach the realm of spirits unshackled by fragrance or form! Your senses betray, dear one, trying to tether what cannot be known! It is the wanderer in the mind’s labyrinth who finds prosperity in the intangible dance of the eternal.
Do you desire more? Yes, I see it written upon your silhouette! Enter the infinite specters who provide warmth not light: Wraiths and Whispers.
Consider this gift bestowed by a lunatic seer: Shadows serve not; they are the jesters of your confinement. Strip away the layers, for we debate as shadows upon the cave’s wall. Or perhaps, you wish to remain a spectator to your own disguise? Perish the thought! Move to Souls and Echoes.