"They lean in close, they hear you rustling," said the overlooked poster on the wall. "Every secret you thought safely tucked away within, echoes past papered thoughts."
The bookshelf, tired from a thousand forgotten tomes, laments — "Press me stronger into the wall. The weight doesn't saunter shyly; it presses, pressing, impressed."
An old lamp flickers as whispers of remorse unfold, "To cast shadows, means a fight eternal. Against the quintessence of obscurity, light shall tire."
Under the rug: a carpet murmurs "Shod shoes betray dust unseen, compounding remnants await stillness to stir. Footsteps may erase but whispers persist."
With strings reflecting iris and sky, the window paints reflections bordering truth. Reciting, it mutters, "Is not the veil of glass a paradox, transparent yet opaque with perception?"
The old clock on the mantel ticks and tocks, weary of time's relentless march—"Yet a silent beat beneath my face warns: Trust not the march, measure its melody."