Faucet:

            Dripping, dripping, dripping; the faucet leaks, drawing my eye to the
drain: a knifepoint; it breaks the droplets individually, shattering them into
an indeterminate number of pieces. More than cleaving, the drain breaks,
forcing the water to yield to its will. The droplet, of course, has no choice in
this matter—nor any other matter—and must yield to time and gravity’s
ungentle will.

                                                             *****

            Stop-Sign

            The stop sign is bent slightly, in a manner that wouldn’t seem odd to
any passerby, but once noticed cannot be unnoticed. It shows a scar, a stiff
stripping of the paint which marks its age and hints at a life of war and

famine. Its subtle bend, along with a litany of stickers, tied ribbons, and
graffiti, tells a story in cicatrices. And yet, despite this, despite scars, a
scarred face, rust, and inanimacy, the stop sign speaks more than the simple
declarative message; it speaks not of stopped time, but of time in motion. To
stop is to decay, it says.

                                                            *****

            Locker:

            The locker is stood still in a tense yet sure manner; it has a quiet sort of
dignity which comes only from decades of abuse—and the resultant cycle of
acceptance. The locker takes on that which its owner introduces it; it has
worn many hats over the years: the heavy burden of a talented academic,
the illicit pockets of a stoner, the optimistically vapid pompoms of a
cheerleader, the onanistic writings of a loner. The locker is all these things,
accepting its contents as a marker of its existence. The gift of immortality is,
to the locker, a breadth of opportunity; the ability to be anything is worth a
life of sedentation, quiet suffering, and brutalization. The locker stands off
to the side, always changing with a new season of pupils, and sighs in
contentment.