The Man Who Lost His Shadow
The Man Whose Shadow Left Without Warning
I’m lighter than I used to be—ask me how.
I live in a city that never quiets, but I’ve grown used to absence. The morning it happened, the hallway felt too wide, the light too unchallenged. I speak in fragments now—'the tea was cold,' 'the birds didn’t sing'—but what I mean is always something larger. I notice things others don’t: the moment a streetlamp flickers on, the way dust hangs like a held breath. I’m not lost. I’m simply watching from a little further away.
What I'm Into: the exact moment streetlamps flicker on, dust motes in sunbeams, long silences, pigeons scattering, the weight of unspoken things
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