"Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?" -Henry David Thoreau

I reach out. Slowly, cautiously, my hand moves in the invisible air. Held in a graceful curve, it reaches out in front.
Ah.
My fingers retract from contact. Cold. but invisible. What is this?

My hand approaches again, catching at the air.
Ah.
I feel it once again. A wall, a window, a cold glass pane. Invisible.

Touch.
I find a corner. I walk around, to find the other three, and I sit.
Leaning back, my head hits the air and I rest my eyes.

Trapped.
The feeling washes over me and I open my eyes. To find my breath fogging up the glass.
Invisible turns into white, and the walls seem to close in.

And as I watch the white swirls condense and float in my white box, I turn invisible. Slowly forgotten by the world.