I have a penchant for unlaid beds. They offer a narrative that goes beyond the surface. Did the bed start neatly made and then become undone after the sleeper rose? Was it left unmade due to a rushed morning or a proclivity for disorder? Where did the sleeper go? I wonder how their day went.

The allure of wrinkled pages is equally fascinating. Do they signify a single reader's untidiness, altering the book's pristine state? Or do they represent a collective journey, each wrinkle a testament to different individuals' interactions with the text? What secrets lie within the variations in wrinkling...