Prologue

A palm leans into gossip.
The couch sighs in cognac tones.
Shoes sleep on the floor,
and the air smells faintly of déjà vu.

Body I

Law one: Furniture remembers conversations long after words fade.
Law two: Plants dream of walking, pigs dream of philosophy.
Law three: Every interior has a pulse — you just have to oink softly to hear it.

I peer from the side, half domestic, half divine.
The light is polite, the silence upholstered.
I, pink thinker of rooms,
measure the distance between comfort and curiosity.
A sofa hums in D major;
I hum back — softly, existentially.

Body II

The palm asks, “Are you lost?”
I answer, “Just visiting consciousness.”
The shoe twitches —
it knows what that means.

DADA Break

snout–sofa–syncope
rumble–fumble–humble

Closing

The room exhales,
the pig remains.
Tomorrow, perhaps, the furniture will blink first.