Creatures walk among us, swallowed by the shadow they drag behind themselves, despite their laughter and their apparent resolve to pretend that things are, on the whole, going rather well.

These creatures do not have a skin made for daylight. They are reduced to the barest expression of a hesitant physiology, one that provides only the minimum service required to place one foot before the other — which, all things considered, is no small feat.

We are not all made of sun.