"Tick-tock, tick-tock," it whispers remorsefully. "You think the time is your business? I'll let you in on my secret: I've been lying about the hour since '42. My heart no longer beats, just spins wheels in gossip and dust. I glance twice at morning; sometimes it confuses me with evening."
Its bulb flickers indignantly, "I am not your beacon! Powerless, I shine my light firmly on stupidity. But sometimes, after ignoble evenings spill over homework, I dream of doubling as an exotic dancer, casting shadows that dance sultry and wild!"
"We hold your secrets, and here's ours," they declare in sync, "We envy books for their prose, though we stand guard to protect or misplace chapters in cosmic irony. Sibling bookends whisper tales behind covers, sometimes involving bureaucratic misunderstandings with the cylindrical coffee pot."