In alleys unseen by daylight, the abandoned parchment with inked intentions utters along corridors of paraffin breath. "I've seen it all," it murmurs.
The lamp flickers testimony while its bronze skeleton creaks, "I hold shadows and keep stories of bright echoes."
From the book's umbra grip, chapters sing forgotten harmonies of unmade futures. Dust spins tales of "vistas yet unseen," kissed by ages.
Whispering walls sigh, "We are the ticks behind time's clock, measuring silence in moments unspent."
The chair's wood, worn and groaning like an ancient oracle, reveals its truth: "Perched upon my thrones, many unravel tales never told."