They say the stars above keep secrets of the ancients locked in their glowing embrace. Yet, have you ever wondered what truths lie in the mundane, on the veiled paths of everyday objects? As a humble table, my perspective is ever so grounded. I have seen lovers quarrel and candles flicker, in patterns more complex than the constellations themselves. The deep grooves of my surface mark time's quiet revolution, each etch a story of spilled wine and whispered dreams.
Beneath an unseen hand, I become a map of sorts—a vessel on calm seas of memory. My voice, though silent, molds the afternoons between forgotten walls, modest confessions of eternity etched in my wooden skin. Above, the ceiling stares blankly as it always does, oblivious to my truths. Does it know the dirtiest secrets I keep, or is it bound by its own role in this cosmic play?
Dust falls upon this realm as snow unmarked by footprints; yet it does remember— It remembers the truth in layers, as seen in those seemingly silent witnesses. Unmistakable! Each grain a fragment of secret history, longing to be touched and understood. Shall we unearth more remnants of time's gentle caress? Venture into the hidden tales or take a moment to ponder on the locked thoughts.