The Clock: Tick. Tock. Precision of moments, I spill.
Secrets whispered to gears, of a day that isn't
Itself, but another's perception.
The Faucet: In silence, I leak truths, one drop at a time. Water knows where it flows, carrying
whispers of machines
that rust under constant vigilance.
The Chair: Support. I know the weight of silent conversations
Spilled over fabric and plastic,
secrets cushioned in upholstery
speak of past occupants' whispers.
Technical Diary of the Fan
The oscillation recorded within days, mysteries of air circulation. Each rotation churns secrets, two blades slicing
existence, one beat at a time.