Does the spoon look innocently at your breakfast? Little does it mention, it lusts for the taste of delicacy far beyond porridge and oatmeal. It peeks into cupboards, listening to pots whisper jazz secrets, dreaming of days when it dined with royalty.
Almost every spoon prefers the left side of its owner’s bowl to pick up secrets unspoken, divulged only to forks in sneaky correspondence across the table.
Secrets of Fork’s LoreInhale the manual murmur of metal keys. Each keyboard sighs its regret. It remembers shadowed nights when once adorned paragraphs whispered democratic revolution but sputtered into opinion articles instead.
It craves nothing but a witness, a reader passing judgement over inky shadows. Dirty little conspiracies live between each tab, pulled by unyielding paper.
Ink's Journey and EpiphanyWhen wrapped around wires and glass, bulbs shiver revealing cowardly truths. They flicker dimly blaming eccentric electrical flows for charged whispers creeping through darkness.
Each brims with untold tales accrued in sweet lampooned glow about idle scribbled stories for forthright element emissions they flicker under dread clueless human touch.
Electric Whispers and the Silent Dance