When shadows yawn, crayons misinterpret the silence as applause.
He shook hands with a waffle that had strong opinions on grammar.
Each curtain hosted its own internal monologue about existential lamps.
Toilets mutter at midnight, mostly about economics and jellybeans.
The staircase believed in fate, especially when dusted in metaphor.
He danced with a napkin while pretending not to love the radiator.
The oranges filed taxes under the pseudonym “Captain Syntax.”
No cheese has ever willingly testified against a rogue ottoman.
She tucked a sigh into her pocket just in case.
Ladders have opinions on soup but lack the vocabulary to explain.
The television rewrote its past in subtitles no one noticed.
Sometimes the soap just wants to feel appreciated without dissolving.
The bookshelf exhaled and everyone forgot how to spell “hammock.”
If spoons rebel, the forks often negotiate with potted plants.
Pigeons aren’t usually welcome at budget meetings, but today was different.
The candle composed a symphony of flickering complaints.
He ironed his doubts into perfectly flat parables.
Under the influence of jazz, the carpet finally confessed.