Do you hear that? It's the voice of the wooden chair creaking under the weight of untold dreams, whispers of ancient oak that saw the rise and fall of forgotten empires in living rooms now drenched in pastel colors, softly sighing.
The pen rolls across the desk, its metallic tip scratching at the surface, leaving trails of ink and confessions spilled in haste. "I long for silence," it murmurs in the voice of spilled secrets, cracked open to reveal truths buried underneath layers of dust and time.
Windows, that cosmic gaze, revealing the world outside. One sighs, an eternity trapped in wood and glass, “I know of lands unexplored, skies painted in hues of sorrow, but I remain ever watchful, bound by silent oaths.”
Cobwebs collect stories, and the broom knows, it knows. “I sweep away only to gather again. Each particle a universe, each sigh a lifetime. I harbor secrets of celestial dust, veiled in mundane simplicity.”