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The piano, with it's wooden lid, underneath which hides it's bells and whistles, it's strings and pads. The stand which sits sideways on uneven hinges, then keys, black and white, each hiding a new, and beautiful sound.
The bookshelf. A shelf in a light shade of brown that is rarely noticed by anyone passing by it, but a shelf that contains books. Red books, green books, paperbacks, leather bound, notebooks and more. Each book contains a portal to either a new adventure or information about sciences, history and more.
My locket. A piece of history, my history, a single memory. It's rust covered hinge, and tinted golden cover, the engraved horse head proudly sitting on the front, out in the open. The heart of the matter, the inside, where people put thousands of words, pictures, of lovers, relatives, neighbors. The outside as if a wondrous mystery novel. The mystery itself, who's picture holds such a high place of residence. But when opened...nothing.
Wool blankets. Soft, comfy and the perfect thing to wrap yourself in when you're cold, lonely or getting ready to drift off to sleep. We usually take them for granted, but I'm sure that sheep do not. They hold within themselves a satisfying itchy. It's really weird.
The walls. Barricades from the treacherous outdoors. Shelters from storms of weather. Walls provide privacy, and comfort. Walls can be painted. Walls can be decorated. Walls can hold up televisions so that cabinets and shelves so not have to bear the pain. Walls can provide instant entertainment when an animate object smashes into one. Walls hear the secrets you wish no one else to know.
My feet. Callused, and worn, Tanned, and sturdy. Each bearing the burden of my weight. It's partners, five per foot, in all different sizes, each with a hard hat of their own. I wiggle them as the fluff of my socks finds it's place between them. An undescribable crack echoes throughout, as they announce their presence...
Strung together into sentences.
And you're still reading them.
Good for you.
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