A dead story teller.

I sit quietly now on a desk in a room and in the room hangs a picture on a wall and a lamp on a table and a chair for sitting. And a man, every now and then, will come to see us and he will look upon the picture and sit in the chair and turn on the lamp for to read by. But I am kept still and quiet. I am the forgotten story teller. I am a teller of tales and an open door for the secrets of this man.

But some years ago he got to thinking about holding those secrets inside of himself. And little by little our conversations would shorten and more and more time would pass between meetings. And finally, none at all. No talking. No conversation. No secrets.

And now I am mute and silenced and forced to envy a picture upon a wall and a lamp on a table the chair that is for sitting.