Conditional Reality

We are the shadow people. We have eyes of coal and skin like crow feathers. We flicker candles, hail the glory of eclipses, and dance with death. You see us when you care to, painting graffiti on your eyelids, or pulling the night over your land at sunset. We mean to make you fret and we know we do. We have no gift for regret. We sweep away light with our brooms. We make merry when the sun sleeps, click our heels on overcast days, burn out light bulbs, hail the glory of power outages. We are the shadow people.