And the shadow comes out. Look at the yard. Elusive paintings pass over his walk. Nothing is observed in the mobile museum of appearances. Seeing, in its solitude of light, drags itself through its own silence. No bumps. Of waves. Of breath. Taken away. Sobbing of seeing. In her cold hands. In his arms, balanced. Like mime boats. Street map. Among the hodgepodge of colorful walkers.