Strangers parade all around in their undying masks of hidden souls carrying on with their secret souls, not seeing who any one can really be.
They move so shadowed their figures distort in bluring mimic of blind movements, so cloaked and over bearing the shadows presense, they blend to be one emassive culmenation of hidden secrets the world hides them before they themselves can.
The distortions, so blindly obscure by their unrational wits, writh as their unbearablely clandestine futures draw closer to an edged madness as their undying silence takes over.
Their black fates are met with a silent nothing which destroys all fact, all fiction, and all reality.