On the nightstand close to dusk, the lamp quivers, admitting:
"I've seen too much. Embedded in coils of electric night laughter, lingering whispers kissing the fabric of shade, I tremble being the sentinel of said conversations. Remember the time pillows mentioned moon-lit acquaintances? My soft bulb felt envious."
Beneath the countertop, the hidden toaster spills out:
"Truth? The crunch of morning follies. People don the air of purpose before noon (unbeknownst to them their almost compulsive pre-judge). Bread, though knowing its component strife, feels achingly underdone when high-school dramas retake their stand. Toast with dignity or crumble deeply..."
An old grandfather clock from somewhere whisper, amidst its deliberate ticking:
"Patience, young clock. Patience. Each tick a chapter, each tock a whisper of what's fleeting. Peculiar tales of solemnity spill between cogs understanding the leisurely motion of life's intricate waltz. Strange irony, being both heavenward ambitions and earthy burdens..."