Once upon a midnight dreary, the ceiling fan spun tales of grandeur, its wings beating against the whispering night. And what of our own wings, fabricated from paper dreams and irony?
"I wanted to fly," whispered the sofa, cradling forgotten ambition in its velvety embrace.
Enter the echo chamber, where your voice is but a memory, bouncing against the walls with the enthusiasm of a college degree in existentialism.
The world outside continues its charade, oblivious to the silent screams tucked away beneath layers of tweets and trends. The moon, a voyeur, chuckles at our solemn dance, a ballet of the bittersweet.
"I scream in silence," said the clock, each tick a reminder of dreams deferred, hands too busy to hold the moment.
In this symphony of solitude, the stars die quietly, their light a mere afterthought in the cosmic play. Yet we, the reluctant protagonists, navigate this theater of the absurd, wings at the ready.