Dear Reader, if you think that books rest easy behind their covers, think again. They gossip, oh yes! The old encyclopedias exchange secrets about their dusty neighbors, while the novels pretend piety, flipping pages when nobody's watching.
Desk lamps, shining beacons of truth, have been known to rearrange their glow in jealousy over misplaced shadow during the night shifts of restive office supplies.
There cometh a day when your humble toaster grows weary of merely browning bread. Many have dreamt of a life as a flamboyant kitchen painting, with stories to tell that curl and sizzle away from the heat of routine.
An iron kettle murmured, "We scald the unwitting hands while the porcelain teapot plays the injured victim, a devil hidden behind a dainty spout."
And what of the furniture that bears the weight of human secrets while harboring its own? Beneath layers of polished veneer lies existential dread: who will notice when they crumble beneath their own pressed-wood glory, while all around them the paperbacks whisper sweet nothings into the void?