In the hushed folds of 3 a.m., the forgotten echoes sing, a refrigerator door confesses to the milk, "Don't let the cereal know it expires tomorrow."
A single luminous 8-bulbed chandelier speaks, "We, the numerals of light, reset at dawn, but far from arithmetic, our lattice arcs a mystery."
Nightly, distant echoes of past eras murmur from vinyl archives, "Eight and seven ascend but divide us, a symphony not meant for midnight arithmetic."
Yet, the ceiling lamp resonates, "We always double, yet remain half-lit, as secrets seep from joints like rain from tin roofs."
Mathematical Poetry Unveiled