A scene from the throne room

The second cup holder is entered in the archive as a fourth sofa and cannot be sat on. The mop takes the shelf at nine and the ceremony's one dollar returns to my pocket, postage unpaid.

I call the atlas as witness: spine cracked at half past three, page eighty-nine, still open on the shelf while you wept. The book it was meant to hold is nine dollars and not yet bought, so the suffering is roughly four cents of wear.