Beneath the chestnut clock... tick-tock...
They speak of borrowed time held in wooden grains. Forgotten that hands too must wave, eternally... sparce of embrace but charged with now.
A lamp murmurs midnight confessions unseen by bright eyes.
Pampered atop creaking attic floors; curating dust and glory. Illuminating the starlight of secrets spilled onto extensive volumes, tracing trodden tale details.
Something whispers, there at the hinge...
"I stood watch over treasured missteps, pooling soft laughter in your foyers slow-compassed echoes that pass, under the beard of familiarity, unlinked to presser's bid."
They've grappled with shelves of pressed smiles and vacant embraces. Knobless activation and wrenchlike fears stood cloaked within varnished countenance.
Reclusive puppeteers? Or none that eerily pride the shopfloor scissors...
The Mask of Paper /anomalies/shreds.html