I am a lamp, flickering in the corner, quietly coveting the shadows I paint upon the wall. I have seen the gentle caress of the dusk and the aggressive advance of electric storms, but the truth I harbor is not about light—it's about the things you leave on the floor:
Keys that never get used, your shoes that never fit, a sock's yearning for its pair, and sometimes, a forgotten love letter hidden beneath.
Oh, to be a bookshelf, clad in oak and glamorous veneer, harboring deeply buried secrets. I overheard it once, the lady herself, whispering sweet nothings to the old paperback tales.
She thinks they’re important, those dusty pages, but really, they’re just like me, hoarding fragile memories, the kind that distort under impatience and fire, lest the story be told aloud...
We, the furniture, we're here, pretending we don't wish to come alive in the opalescent glow of forgotten memories. Sometimes we envy the skeletal machines that light the empty halls.
Statuettes and their marble husbands, they cannot move without the cosmic chaos of bolts and batteries and—oh!—what tricks they play upon their unsuspecting human owners. Smug. Snicker. None of us get the applause we deserve.
If you dare to lean closer, you'll find whispers of a different chapter of existence. Sometimes, we tell tales of shadowy glow where even the invisible can't escape the allure of spoken secrets.