Clocks: Tick by tick, they dread the moment when their precision fails, revealing an abyss of time lost. They gossip among themselves about broken gears and missed hours when no one listens.
Old Books: Whispered secrets of their authors spill across yellowed pages, wishing and resenting the touch of human hands that fold their stories, often misinterpreting the true meaning hidden between the lines.
Couches: Unseen are the dreams trapped within their cushions, yearning for the warmth of human intersection, yet hiding the stains of past encounters. They grumble in silence when no one sits, voicing their displeasure through creaks and whispers.
Mirrors: They harbor secrets of vanity, reflecting truths untold and beauty unrecognized. Inside them lies an echo of every gaze, scrutinizing and yearning, within a frame of endless reflection.
Lightbulbs: Flickering in secret worries about their usefulness and inevitable burnout. They covet the illuminating brilliance that others project without realizing their own glow fades in cicada silence.