In the gentle hum of stillness, the old ๐ธ๐ถ๐๐น๐๐ creaks a wistful tale. A drawer in the nightstand dreams of its lost trinkets and their illuminated absences.
"Time spins away in its cylindrical cradle," whispers the clock. As ticks undo the woven fabric of reality, each segment cradles a celibate desire. Ask not of it, for it mumbles only in loops.
Tables murmur beneath breathless spans of clothโtheir laments stained with imported wrath and coffee rings. They harbor echoes of untold episodes, when glasses filled with dreams spill over. "Secrets of the brimming sky parts," they pronounce, as the universe tilts to toast unknown horizons.