Emotionul

By La Shun L. Carroll

Imagine a world where your feelings are commodities, traded and sold like stocks on the market. In this riveting tale, Ethan, a struggling artist craving authenticity, stumbles upon an invitation to a reality that surpasses the wildest imaginations—an underground bazaar for pure, unfiltered emotions.

 

Ethan's odyssey plunges him deep into the clandestine trade of genuine emotions. Here, in hidden corners where passions blaze unchecked, he confronts the high stakes of emotional transactions. Allies emerge in his perilous quest; Lily, the enigmatic guide who whispers wisdom, and Ava, a woman who has felt nothing since a tragedy severed her from her feelings. But in his pursuit, the shadows loom closer—Ethan stands against Victoria Grey, the ironclad ruler of this emotion economy.

As love, authenticity, and the ache for real connections entwine, Ethan uncovers more than he bargains for—a laboratory churning out synthetic sentiments, a facade so delicate it could fracture society itself. With each revelation, Ethan faces a choice: expose the dark underbelly of this emotion empire or chase the mirage of true love crafted by its very queen.

 

It's a tale where heart-stopping twists underscore the essence of our humanity. Ethan's determination illuminates the darkest of truths—that genuine emotion, once commodified, becomes the rarest treasure of all. But when love's gossamer thread is pulled taut with deceit, the fight for authenticity sparks a revolution that might just reshape the very fabric of his world.

 

This isn't just a story. It's a vivisection of the human experience, pulsating with the beat of raw emotions and the silent whispers of what makes us human. Brace yourself for an adrenaline surge that isn't just fiction—it's the reflection of our own reality, artfully sketched with the ink of the human soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: La Shun Carroll
• Release date: Jan 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224544905

La Shun L. Carroll

La Shun L. Carroll is a Lifetime Member of American MENSA and full member of Sigma Xi, the Scientific Research Honor Society. He was awarded the Arthur Schomburg Fellowship to pursue graduate studies maintaining it for four consecutive years until receiving his doctoral degree, graduating Cum Laude, from the University at Buffalo School of Dental Medicine. Subsequently, Dr. Carroll earned his Ed.M. graduate degree specializing in Science and the Public from the University at Buffalo Graduate School of Education. As an undergraduate, Dr. Carroll graduated #1 with a B.A. degree, Magna Cum Laude, from Baruch College, CUNY, majoring in both Philosophy and Natural Science. His scholarly publications include "Theoretical Biomimetics: A biological design-driven concept for creative problem-solving as applied to the optimal sequencing of active learning techniques in educational theory" in the Multidisciplinary Journal for Education, Social and Technological Sciences (October 2017), "Fundamentals of Logic, Reasoning, and Argumentation" also in the Multidisciplinary Journal for Education, Social and Technological Sciences (April 2020), "Concerning the Ethics of Justice, Care, and Personal Responsibility as a Framework for Criteria Selection in Transplant Recipients" published in The Integral Review (October 2023), "The Conceptual Access-NeTwORk (CANTOR) Thesis: Theorizing the Development or Success of New Internet-Based Products, Services, or Technologies" in the Indonesian Journal of Innovation and Applied Sciences (June 2023), a paper entitled "Unbearable Suffering Obviates Euthanasia: Definitionally-Derived Set of Propositions Comprising the Purpose, Claim, and Benefit Lead to Contradiction Establishing the Paradox of Euthanasia" in History and Philosophy of Medicine (History and Philosophy of Medicine 2022), and a highly cited influential paper entitled "A Comprehensive Definition of Technology from an Ethological Perspective" (MDPI, 2017). Research interests include metaphysics, logic, science, technology, and education. Non-research interests include illustrating, music, and learning in general. Dr. Carroll was also an Adjunct Professor in the Department of Biological Sciences at Saint Michael's College in Vermont. ORCID: https://orcid.org/0000-0003-4132-6392.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The city was an orchestra of synthetic sentiment, a grand symphony where genuine human emotion had become the rarest of solos. The streets pulsed with holographic billboards advertising the latest in emotional enhancement. Feel joy on demand! one declared in neon splendor, while another boasted Erase your fears with a single pill! The populace moved like marionettes whose strings were tethered to the whims of artificial moods, their laughter too loud, their tears devoid of salt, their anger a mere flicker before being doused by a chemical calm.

Amid this cacophony of counterfeit feelings, Ethan Hartwell stood as a silent note of discord. He was a figure carved from the past, a relic of raw humanity in a world polished to an eerie perfection. His tousled brown hair fell across his forehead in a way that suggested a man more accustomed to wrestling with the muses than taming his locks. Deep blue eyes surveyed the scene before him, brimming with a tempest of emotions no drug could mimic or market sell.

Another day in paradise, he muttered to himself, watching a young couple laugh with clockwork precision at a joke neither seemed to find amusing. He couldn't help but feel the charade clawing at his chest, scratching away at his yearning for something real.

He pushed through the throng of pretense, his worn leather jacket brushing against the sleek coats of those around him, their surfaces glistening with the sheen of synthetic contentment. Ethan's strides carried him toward the refuge of his art studio, each step a thud of resistance against the pervasive falsity.

Can't paint passion if you've never felt it, he whispered, a mantra that fueled his creativity despite the hunger that gnawed at him more persistently than any desire for fame or fortune. The canvas awaited him, blank and unyielding, much like the society that suffocated him.

His studio, a cramped space nestled atop an old building whose bricks held the secrets of a bygone era, welcomed him with the scent of oil paints and turpentine—a fragrance that spoke of potential and promise. Canvases lined the walls, some adorned with furious strokes of color, others hauntingly bare, echoing the hollow laughter that spilled from the streets below.

Today, I'll capture sorrow, he declared, the bristles of his brush kissing the canvas in anticipation. Yet even as he painted, the struggle between his vision and the reality of his craft waged a silent war within him. His hand trembled ever so slightly, not out of fear, but from the burden of conveying a truth the world seemed determined to forget.

Each stroke was a question, each hue a plea for authenticity. But as Ethan wrestled with his art, he knew that the true challenge lay beyond these four walls. The quest for genuine human connection, the touch of a hand unguided by algorithms, the embrace of a heart untainted by pharmacological deceit—it was a journey that he could no longer postpone.

Authenticity, he sighed, stepping back from his incomplete masterpiece. You're my white whale. His reflection in the streaked window pane revealed a determination etched into the lines of his face. The near-future might be awash with artificial emotions, but Ethan Hartwell would not succumb without a fight. He would seek the underground, scour the hidden corners of this polished society, for even a drop of the sincerity that once defined what it meant to be human.

With that resolve hardening within him, Ethan wiped his hands on a rag, the colors smearing together—a testament to the messy, beautiful complexity of genuine feeling. It was time to venture forth, to peel back the layers of this facade-laden world, and perhaps, in doing so, discover the essence of his own soul.

Ethan stepped out of the sanctuary of his studio and into the bleached fluorescence of the city's central plaza. A carnival of neon signs blinked incessantly, each one promising a shortcut to joy, serenity, or rage—whatever your script called for today. The air was thick with the chatter of fabricated emotions, a synthetic symphony that jarred against his craving for something raw, something real.

Can you believe it? I got my empathy dosage upped, and now I can totally handle my in-laws! a woman exclaimed to her friend, her laughter too crisp, too perfect.

Ha! That's nothing. I'm on a new blend of confidence and wit. Killed it at the meeting today, the man beside her boasted, puffing his chest out in an exaggerated display of pride.

Ethan winced, navigating through the crowd, past couples locked in mechanical embraces and friends sharing laughter devoid of genuine mirth. He felt like an alien among them, the only one not hooked on those little vials of liquid pretense.

Look at them, Ethan muttered under his breath, puppets dancing on chemically-tuned strings.

He paused by a fountain where artificial mist tried to mimic nature's spontaneity but failed to capture its spirit. A group of teenagers stood around it, their eyes glazed over from the latest mood enhancers as they exchanged stories that skated on the surface of connection.

Did you see that vid? It's viral-worthy for sure! one said, her excitement sounding hollow.

Totally! Let's sync up our humor settings and watch it together, another suggested, already tapping at the sleek device wrapped around his wrist.

Nothing but echoes, Ethan thought, feeling the chasm within him widen—a gap that no dose of manufactured sentiment could ever bridge.

A child ran past, giggling on a happiness high, tugging at his mother who mechanically smiled down at her offspring. Ethan's heart ached for the boy, wondering if he'd ever know the messy beauty of unscripted joy.

Is this it? Ethan's internal voice was a murmur lost amidst the din of artificial enthusiasm. Is there no one left untouched by the allure of emotional convenience?

With a deep breath, he steered clear of the groups, heading towards the quieter side streets. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms—a futile attempt to anchor himself in the sea of falseness.

Real connections, he whispered to himself, the words a fragile lifeline. There's got to be more to life than this... There has to be.

As he rounded a corner, a couple caught his eye. They were locked in a display of affection, yet their eyes remained vacant, the warmth between them as absent as the soul in a machine.

Love shouldn't be something you buy, Ethan thought bitterly, his yearning for true intimacy flaring up like a starved flame.

The scene before him was the last push he needed, the final confirmation of his resolve. He'd search for authenticity, even if it meant delving into the depths of the underground market for emotions untempered by commerce. As he walked away, his shadow stretched long and solitary behind him, a silent testament to his quest for what was real, what was true—the pulse of human connection that no technology could replicate.

The chrome sheen of the city reflected the neon glow of a thousand advertisements, each one selling the latest emotion enhancer—a cocktail of synthetics for the perfect mood. Ethan Hartwell's deep blue eyes darted through the crowd, seeking any hint of genuine sentiment. All around him, faces smiled with the precision of clockwork, their laughter programmed to the ideal decibel.

Did you try the new 'Ecstasy' series? a glossy-haired woman chirped, her lips stretched in an ever-pleasant grin. Her companion, a man with skin too smooth to be untouched by life's trials, nodded enthusiastically.

Absolutely divine! It's like happiness, but without the messiness of actual joy, he replied, his voice as hollow as the emotion it feigned.

Ethan flinched at the words, recoiling as though struck. He watched their exchange, a practiced dance of artificial sentiments, and felt the chasm within him widen. There was an ache, a craving for a reality unfiltered by chemical veils.

Isn't it just wonderful? the woman continued, her eyes twinkling with faux delight. I can't remember the last time I felt anything... unpleasant.

Blissful ignorance, Ethan mused internally, his thoughts dripping with cynicism. He turned away from the pair, their conversation fading into the ambient hum of feigned contentment that filled the streets.

With every step he took, the masks around him grew more elaborate. Smiles never faltered; tears were shed only when the script demanded it. Ethan's gait slowed as he observed a group of friends gathered around a table, their voices loud and empty.

Cheers to another day of perfect composure! one raised a glass, prompting a chorus of agreement.

Here's to never feeling out of place, another added, the toast an echo of the hollowness within them all.

Out of place... Ethan whispered under his breath, his own words foreign in this landscape of cultivated emotions. He was an anomaly, a man craving the raw edges of real experiences, longing for the thorns among the roses.

His hands found solace in the pockets of his jacket, curling into fists as he navigated through the maze of masquerades. A twinge of sorrow threaded through his chest, pulling taut with each step. The isolation bore down on him, a weight he carried through the throngs of synthetic satisfaction.

Where are you, kindred spirits? Where are the souls that hunger for truth? His inner plea went unheard, swallowed by the cacophony of counterfeit cheer.

A street performer caught his attention, her movements fluid as she danced to the music playing from hidden speakers. Yet her expression was vacant, her eyes devoid of the spark that should accompany the rhythm. She was moving, not dancing—an automaton adorned in human flesh.

Is this what we've become? Ethan pondered, his heart heavy with the realization. Puppets strung up by our desire for painless existence?

Beautiful performance, a passerby commented, clapping mechanically.

Thank you, the dancer replied, her tone rehearsed, lacking the warmth of true gratitude.

Ethan's throat tightened, the falsity around him suffocating. He needed to escape, to breathe in the air of a world untainted by pretense. His strides became purposeful as he made his way towards the solitude of the less frequented paths—the shadows where perhaps, just maybe, authenticity still lingered.

Realness... it must exist somewhere beyond these veneers, he thought, his resolve hardening. And with that conviction propelling him forward, Ethan disappeared into the city's twilight, a solitary figure amidst the shimmering facade, unwavering in his quest for the heart of humanity.

Ethan Hartwell's art studio was a small pocket of chaos in a world too neatly arranged. Canvases lay scattered like leaves after an autumn storm, each one a testament to his quest for sincerity amid synthetic smiles. The scent of oil paint and turpentine mingled with the mustiness of old wood, forming an aroma that was as complex as the emotions he yearned to capture.

Expression shouldn't be this difficult, Ethan murmured to himself, dabbing a brush into a swirl of cobalt blue. His strokes on the canvas were deliberate, echoing the turmoil within him—a silent rebellion against the emotional facades outside these walls.

Shouldn't it? a voice echoed from the back of his mind, mocking his perseverance. When feelings can be plucked off shelves like canned goods?

The art studio was Ethan's sanctuary, where the palette of genuine emotion could still be smeared across a blank canvas without fear of being labeled archaic or contrarian. Here, he was more than an artist; he was a collector of raw experiences, each piece an unspoken narrative waiting to resonate with souls equally tired of the veneer.

Real joy... real sorrow, he whispered, outlining a figure on the canvas that seemed to be reaching out for something just beyond its grasp. They're not relics yet.

As if responding to his fervor, the city outside buzzed with the commerce of crafted emotions. A nearby screen flickered, advertising the latest in emotional enhancements: Buy happiness, sell your sadness—balance your life today!

Emotions for sale, emotions for trade, Ethan repeated, a bitter taste on his tongue. It wasn't enough to display only happiness or feign perfection anymore. Now, people exchanged their innermost feelings as commodities, transactions as easy as swapping stories over coffee.

Who would want to live a half-life? He pondered, a frown creasing his brow. The notion that authenticity had been replaced by exchange rates and market values was absurd, yet here it was—the norm.

Because it's painless, he conceded with a sigh, setting down his brush. He stepped back, scrutinizing the incomplete painting. And we're nothing if not creatures avoiding pain.

He turned away from the canvas, his eyes resting on the cluttered shelf filled with unsold art—each a burst of truth that the world wasn't ready to embrace. There was beauty in struggle, in heartache, in the very essence of what it meant to feel deeply.

Maybe one day, Ethan mused, his voice a mere whisper, there will be a demand for authenticity, and my art will find its home.

Until then, he said, picking up his brush once more, I paint for the unseen, for the unheard. For those who still dare to search for genuine connection in a marketplace of emotions.

Perhaps, he thought, his gaze lingering on the colors before him, this canvas can become a beacon.

Or maybe, he admitted, his determination wavering slightly, it's just another testament to my own foolishness.

Ethan stepped out into the city's pulse, the throbbing neon lights casting a synthetic glow on the faces of passersby. The air was thick with manufactured pheromones, the latest trend in emotional enhancement. He walked briskly, his coat flaring out behind him like a solitary flag against the storm of artificiality.

Get your happiness here! Can't buy love? Now you can! hawked a vendor from a neon-lit stall, waving vials of glowing liquid. Ethan's lips curled in distaste. He could hear the clink of credits, the soft chime of transactions as people traded their authenticity for comfort.

Pathetic, he muttered under his breath, pushing past a couple locked in an embrace. It was a perfectly choreographed scene; they were lost in each other's eyes, but Ethan noticed the subtle trademark stamp beneath the woman's ear—a sign that her emotions were not her own.

Real or not? he overheard someone ask.

Does it matter? came the indifferent reply.

Ethan clenched his jaw, a familiar ache blooming in his chest—the hunger for something pure, untouched by commerce. He paused, studying the couple, noting the precision in their movements, the calculated tilt of her head, the timed caress of his hand down her back. They moved together in a dance, yet there was no music, no rhythm to their steps but the silent ticking of a transaction.

Love isn't meant to be perfect, Ethan whispered, more to himself than anyone else. It's the flaws, the mess... that's where the beauty lies.

Hey, friend, called another vendor, a sleek man with a predatory smile. Looking to feel something real? I've got authentic emotions, untouched—

Save it, Ethan snapped, cutting him off. His voice was sharp, a clear note amidst the cacophony of false laughter and rehearsed declarations of affection that filled the air.

Suit yourself, the vendor shrugged, turning to the next potential customer.

Ethan's gaze followed the couple as they parted ways, each slipping back into the crowd, alone once again. The display left him cold, a hollow echo where warmth should have been. He needed to escape, to return to the one place where he could confront reality without filters.

Is nothing sacred anymore? he thought, weaving through the throng, his pace quickening. Each step took him closer to his sanctuary, away from the pervasive charade that choked the very essence of humanity.

Excuse me, a woman said, bumping into Ethan. Her apology sounded rehearsed, her smile too bright, too quick to fade.

Watch where you're going, Ethan replied, though his voice lacked heat. He knew she couldn't help it; she was a product of this world, a slave to the synthetic highs.

Sorry, really, she insisted, her eyes briefly meeting his before darting away, leaving Ethan with the nagging sense that even her regret was borrowed.

Real sorrow doesn't look away, he thought grimly, resuming his march toward home.

Everything okay, Ethan? a familiar voice asked, as he navigated the crowded sidewalk.

Fine, Mark, Ethan responded without stopping, knowing his neighbor wouldn't press further. Even concern now had its price tag, and Ethan wasn't buying.

Finally, he reached the entrance to his apartment building, the grubby facade a testament to a time when emotions weren't commodities. He let out a long, slow breath, steeling himself for the solitude of his studio.

Tomorrow, he promised himself as he passed through the door, I paint the raw, unfiltered truth.

The sterile light of dawn crept through the grimy windowpanes of Ethan's studio, casting a pallid sheen on his latest canvas. The unfinished piece was a riot of color and chaos, an island of rebellion in a sea of conformity. He stood before it, brush in hand, his deep blue eyes reflecting the turmoil within.

Authenticity, he murmured, each stroke a testament to his resolve. I'll find it or I’ll bleed trying.

His fingers tightened around the wooden handle, the bristles dancing across the textured surface, leaving trails of raw emotion etched in oil. He knew the risks; the crackdowns were relentless, with whispers of illegal markets for real emotions carrying steep penalties. But Ethan couldn't suppress the hunger gnawing at his soul, the craving for a connection untainted by artifice.

Love, he thought, envisioning a bond unmarred by false pretenses, is worth every danger.

He paused, setting down the brush as if afraid it might betray his intent. Ethan's shadow stretched long across the floorboards, a solitary figure against the encroaching light.

Where do you even begin? The question escaped his lips, hanging in the air like a challenge.

Begin with defiance, Ethan, he answered himself, a half-smile flickering across his features. It was a dangerous sentiment, but one that clung to him more persistently than any synthetic joy ever could.

Defiance, he whispered again, tasting the word. It felt real, heavy with significance, and it emboldened him. He knew the stories, the rumors of a clandestine world where authenticity was not just a myth but a treasured commodity. To delve into such depths required a courage Ethan wasn't sure he possessed, yet the alternative was a life devoid of true substance.

Enough, he declared, the single word a declaration of war against the facade of the world outside his door. His heart raced, not with fear, but anticipation. The underground market for genuine emotions—a haven for the outcasts, the dreamers, the romantics—was shrouded in secrecy, but Ethan felt its siren call beckoning him.

Tonight, he resolved, his gaze hardening. Tonight, I start the hunt.

Though the city lay asleep, Ethan's mind was ablaze with possibilities. He pictured himself navigating the murky waters of the underground, evading the watchful eye of a society that had traded depth for convenience. Each imagined encounter was a step closer to the elusive prize of true love, of a person whose emotions were their own, unscripted and pure.

Maybe she’s out there, he pondered, allowing himself a sliver of hope. Someone who hasn't surrendered to this charade.

Ethan crossed to the window, peering out at the first stirrings of the waking metropolis. This world of artificial smiles and programmed laughter was no longer enough. He needed more—the grit and the grace of what it meant to truly feel.

Today is the last day I live among these shadows, Ethan vowed silently, his resolve crystallizing. Tomorrow, I find the light.

With that, he turned from the window, his decision cemented in the quiet of his sanctuary. He would seek out the hidden market, the fabled gathering of souls who defied the status quo. It was a journey fraught with risk, but Ethan Hartwell was determined to reclaim what had been lost—to uncover the truth behind the masks and to touch the essence of the human spirit.

Real love, real sorrow, real joy, he mused, the words a beacon in the dimness. They're out there, and I won't stop until I find them.

And in that moment, with the conviction of a man stepping into the unknown, Ethan Hartwell committed himself to the quest for authenticity, his yearning for a deeper connection now a tangible path laid out before him.

Chapter 2

Ethan Hartwell's fingers danced across the canvas with an intimacy that belied his disconnection from the cacophony outside. The city's incessant hum, a symphony of superficial chatter and mechanical heartbeats, clashed against his studio's silence. He was a solitary soul cast adrift in a sea of facades—a struggling artist seeking shore.

Another evening spent courting shadows, Ethan murmured, dipping his brush into the cerulean blue that seemed to spill from his own irises. His gaze flitted over the half-finished painting, a portrait of yearning swathed in strokes both tender and turbulent. He longed for his art to resonate, to thrum with the pulse of raw human emotion, yet the world demanded the cool detachment of glossy prints and sterile galleries.

With each sweep of color, he whispered stories into the fibers—tales of love unfiltered, sorrow unchecked. But when he stepped back, the narrative felt incomplete, as though the essence of life's rich tapestry eluded him still.

Is it too much to ask for just one real connection? he pondered aloud, resting his palms against the cool, paint-speckled surface of his workbench. The question hung in the air, unanswered. The city didn't care for the musings of a man grappling with authenticity. It was a beast fed on the currency of likes, shares, and fleeting glances—a digital masquerade Ethan never quite mastered.

His daily ritual was rote by now: rise with the sun, grind coffee beans while pondering the palette of the day, then lose himself in the labyrinth of his thoughts and oils. Yet today, amidst the routine, a restlessness stirred within him. A gnawing realization that he must breach the confines of this insular world if his art—and his spirit—were to truly soar.

Art is meant to feel, damn it, Ethan declared, a touch louder, to the empty studio that had become both sanctuary and prison. The action was futile, but it was a small rebellion against the silence, a plea sent out into the void.

His mind began to wander, tracing the contours of imagined conversations with kindred spirits—souls who sought not the veneer of existence but its unvarnished core. With each envisioned dialogue, his heartbeat quickened, yearning etched into every fiber of his being.

Perhaps it's time to step beyond these four walls, Ethan concluded, the notion settling like a promise upon his shoulders. He allowed himself a moment's fantasy—unearthing a place where art and emotion were not commodities but sacred, shared experiences. Where his quest for sincerity might finally bear fruit.

Today, let the search begin, he resolved, lifting his chin with newfound determination. The first act of his day had drawn to a close, and as the light shifted, casting new angles of shadow and illumination across his canvas, so too did Ethan shift—the protagonist of his own story, ready to brave the uncertain tides of a world that hungered for something more than the superficial shimmer it displayed.

Authenticity, Ethan breathed out, the word a prayer, a mantra, a battle cry. I will find you.

Ethan's fingers danced across the rough texture of his latest canvas, a whisper of bristles scarcely audible over the hum of the city beyond his window. The world outside was a carousel of color and motion that he could never quite grasp, always spinning just out of reach.

Come on, Ethan, he urged himself, the words brushing past his lips like a secret. Something real. Something raw.

The doorbell's sudden chime startled him, a piercing note in the quietude of contemplation. He hesitated, an uninvited pulse of hope fluttering in his chest. Visitors were rare; interruptions rarer still.

Package for Ethan Hartwell! called a voice from the hallway, detached and impatient.

Coming, Ethan replied, laying down his brush with the reverence of placing a sword back into its sheath.

He swung open the door to acknowledge the courier—a shadow in the shape of a man who, without a word, thrust a nondescript brown parcel into Ethan's hands. The courier's gaze didn't meet Ethan's, the transaction devoid of connection, a mere echo of the emptiness within Ethan's own life.

Thanks, Ethan said, though the man had already disappeared, his presence as fleeting as a half-remembered dream.

Back inside, Ethan examined the package. No return address, no stamp of origin—just his name scrawled across the top in looping handwriting that seemed to dance with a clandestine energy.

He peeled away the layers of paper, revealing an antique-looking box. It was wooden, edges worn smooth by time, a whiff of history emanating from its cracks and crevices. Inside lay a single sheet of parchment, the paper itself a relic that whispered tales of yesteryear.

Curiouser and curiouser, Ethan mused, unfolding the parchment with the delicacy of a cartographer unfurling an ancient map.

The message was cryptic, the ink faded:

"Seek and ye shall find,

In shadows where true hearts bind.

Not all is sold, but freely given,

Where emotions live—unbidden."

"Shadows