A soft sigh escapes, caught in the crevices of ink-soaked fibers. Life as a mutual manuscript, where thoughts are scrawled and lost between crumpled edges. "Oh, how I envy the breeze," muses the paper, "it travels free, whispers of its own, while I endure as a mere repository of spilled thoughts and forgotten doodles."
The paper crumples, betraying its own lies, hinting at secrets buried deep with adhesive and highlighters. "Inside me lies the truth of the spilled coffee," a dark foe paperback shudders, "a relentless stain, yet here I hear voices, the ticking silence writing my own doom."
Through friction with fingers, a fabric softens, allowing whispered secrets. "I hold remnants of conversations, half-heard and misconceived," she confesses, "etched in light graphite, erased and redone, oh the sadness of never being complete."
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