A book, tucked imperfectly in a bookcase, that falls painfully cracking its spine; and shoes that point at each other from opposite ends of the room.
The chatter of the table clutter, talk talk talk — who can keep this quiet for long? (Clean is quiet.)
I know, from the standpoint of this cushion, why I might consider myself a giant, I will seem so tiny an entity within my own form.
There lays where he lays and will soon lay — the cot: there, perhaps, the giant enters me, I am so much larger, but not so that I will know it.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 
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