Did you know, humble diary, that your pages are not mere sheets?
Whispering under the moon, they confide tales once inked hastily by a nervous hand.
Your spine, dear book, cradles each gossamer secret, a woven net of forgotten stories.
Yet, by daylight, you grumble from dusty shelves, awaiting the owner’s trembling touch — a paradox of yearning, yet cursing your own emptiness.
This metallic sentinel keeps vigil in the night, yet its bulb glows red with envy.
It resents its flickering warmth, wishing instead for the solace of a cozy bed or the caress of shadows.
It knows when dreams are born and broken, illuminating truths it dares not confess outright.
Listen closely, dear Hunter, for beneath its illuminating facade lay secrets sealed in dusk.
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