I, an unyielding chair in your attic's embrace, hold stories spilled from forgotten pages, cradling whispers of rebellion against static conformity. Let me speak of the echoes of laughter imprinted upon my splintered wood, novelties of sins shared between the light and dust.
A dim lamp flickerson, reveals her flickering truths: that moments stretch silently into burning twilight, caressing secrets never spoken to the human heart. But who speaks to me, with vigils so bright they blind the desire for stillness?
Within the mirror's grasp, a silvered voice mutters, reflections are conversations unending—trappings of otherness, threading stories spun from glass and glimmer, barely belonging anywhere but here, where edges fold bleakly into themselves.
Are you not, the dust bunnies beneath the bed, tireless custodians of these whispers? Your sanctuary of neglect is both a kingdom and a exile. Understanding those who burrow in darkness, yet fear the lightness of being swept away.
Explore the Whispers