"In the dark alcove of the desk," whispered the old wooden chair, "I watch the books whisper their silent dreams, bound as they are in paper skin and ink blood. They carry stories of my own, secrets I dare not voice."
The blinds clattered, their thin voices jittering with the dust of untold time, "We knew of the sun's betrayal long before the curtains were drawn," they said, "for we remember the tampered touch of lazy shadows."
Beneath the shelf sat a trophy, its gleaming sheen hiding the unwanted truth, "We are nothing more than statues, relics of one man's ephemeral victory, standing sentinel over the mundane reign of pens and paperclips."
These long-ignored diaries of wood and steel await their whisperers.
Relive the sordid tales of your inanimate allies: Secret | Betrayal | Sentience