Walking shadows

If I don't write it down, it will disappear. I found this out by accident, and before the revelation I had nearly grown to resolve the ephemeral truth.
The shadows, imposing, of each strolling wanderer a mental melody in me make. When the sun beats its contrapuntal eye and I recognize the rhythm to its waves, it is already two hours since my shift began as curator. I am not dozing, merely dead. I had used to be all right, and nothing had changed except my capability to change-- this is the thought I entertain as I watch the light echo off of every tourist's gait. Do I, like they, cast darkness behind me under the light? Soon will come the gloaming, hic cubat edilis and his fifteen steps; then I will look behind me. I, too, am edible, as are all to the worms. Those who have no bones. Who eats them when they have gone? (It is not long after that the tourists have passed, leaving their shadows behind to stare in my window. Not long after that, I cannot recall their faces. Eventually the tourists have left this material plane entirely, leaving only me.)