A humble ceramic cup stands idle on the shelf, its edges chipped like wisdom lines on an elder's brow. Within's what the world hid; brews are brewed, scalding tea in whispering condescension waits the break of dawn—waiting for little more than its own echo. What clandestine sips of bought dreams plummet through porcelain walls and what irksome stains abandon bold thoughts?
Every wooden chair in its place, miracles and curses concealed within its rickety joints. They never admit their stage, neither right nor wrong seat, acting to binding scripts of surveys. They confess in comfortable cracks—a child once wedged there, listening to adult dialogues before Sunday’s sermon broke routine. Frozen sponsors of every social pirouette, stout secrets cradle within!
A watch upon its maiden silence eternally wrapped, tick and tock symbolize clandestine betrayals of calendrical continuity. They’d promised dividends of reliability, shackling their wearer to imaginary landmarks. Each glance at hands begs existential forgiveness from twilight ancestors worried ink swiftly belied linear truth.