Shadows glide and pass us by. And we, rigid in our warm, cozy armchair, are stunned. Matters of importance and urgency wane in the hazy background, like wisps of smoke after the bonfire had died down and surrendered in the approaching rise of the mighty sun. Some kind of void enters some kind of presence.

These shadows, what have they learned? Have they illusioned themselves of running in circles of fire and pleasure? Maybe they haven’t run at all. Or perhaps they did. They budged, crawled, flew, jumped, spun. But despite the many movements, they didn’t stay found. They got carried and casted away by their own stormy selves. They didn’t rediscover the road to home. They got buried beneath the dirt and rocks. In consequence, they haven’t heard Jack’s intimate voice when he said, “We were never really born, we will never really die.”