The desk laments its infinite patience toward the clutter above it: papers, cups, and dormant dreams await ongoing equations to unfold. “I bear down on my surface, unbending,” it muses, “my equilibrium balances their chaos without grievance.” A confounding balance sheet, indeed.
That forgotten wall clock, its hands mockingly fixed at half-past some eternal moment, asserts “Each tick is a problem unsolved, hidden away within my gears while the world assumes I'm static.” But is the clock static or is it time itself, suspended in equationless rivulets?