When the midnight ink spills on regret, the calendar pages crinkle, laughing softly. They hold the nursery rhyme of time in vaulted whispers, confessing stolen moments—Tuesday's envy of Wednesday's holiday.
In the quiet abyss of drawers, a stapler dreams. Its dreams are punctuated by metal teeth, jabbing at the silence of paper's virginity. "They think I'm for order," it confesses, "but chaos is my inkpot, spilling everywhere."
A lone apple, forgotten and bruised on the shelf, groans under existential crises. "I once cycled the cosmos in a lunch sack, sought galaxies in lunchtime boredom, yet here I am, decaying in fruitlessness," it whispers. Quantum Dares
The refrigerator hums a tune. A dirge. It has seen eternity in leftovers, a melodrama of cold spaghetti and wilting kale. "Their secrets are the easiest to keep, but oh, the noise inside my circuits!" it laments.
Under the flickering fluorescents, the lightbulb shivers, its secrets electric and incandescent. "I am the ghost of potential," it flickers, "haunting the shadows of unlit existence. My cosmic jest is to glow and fade—the ultimate riddle."