The shadow of my hand, pen jutting outward, moves along the page.
The shadow of my wrist, propped up against the rough texture of my notebook, moves along the denim of my pants.
The shadow of my forearm, veins jutting against soft skin, moves along the plaid jacket of the stranger sitting in front of me.
The shadow of my shoulder, stiff so as not to bump into the shadows next to me, moves along the dirtied carpet below my soles.
The shadow of my soul moves across the entire space—from page to denim to plaid to carpet—though you can’t see it without the light.
Your writing is so rich and deeply felt!