A shadow is present because of its absence,

Isn’t that inside-out?

Yet empty space is where one finds all existence,

We are always within without,

Nothing to write home about.

Who’s there?

Who cares?

We fit into these impressions,

Despite asking those questions.

Records get scratches,

Locks have latches,

All that matters is mass and volume,

You wouldn’t be there if there was no room,

And you wouldn’t be you if you were naught.