Beneath the cracks, echoes collide.
"You can't park here," said the door, vexingly.
Chandeliers hum, a tune of forgotten spoons.
Before the mirror speaks, a vacuum yawns.
Proceed cautiously: walls start talking back.
"Sir, the llama wants a raise."
Rug's intent stares, carpet conspiracy.
Whispers, mutters of poorly drafted contracts.
Escape Meet the Shadows