The poise of an old chair, resting in the stale corners of memory whispers secrets—tales of silent evenings, where only its wooden arms embraced the twilight's breath.
"Only the cats sit upon me now," it mumbles. "The humans come and go, but their imprints fade like daylight."
In the kitchen, forgotten utensils recount their stories of ambition as if regrieving battles once fought within flames and amongst pans: "Spoon" confides moodily to "Fork", "the stirrings I made once upon a boil were tumultuous yet unnoticed."
An entry from the unwritten diary of your hallway: Click to peer—if able to fathom, for the lining is pulled tightly against disclosures unfit for the living.
"Temporal Fluency" weaves these events into a tapestry unseen by eyes, yet felt by the brush of curiosity—a history of humility in permanence.
And the floor laments, quietly: “Here, beneath the rug of time, I've seen all those who chose not to see.” It does not sleep, only dreams in creaks and sighs.