Houses exist. Cars, shoes, tulips, chairs exist. They find no other reason, they're just standing there.

That's what they do.

They are things.

Even the smallest objects laying around in our houses, on shelves and table tops.

A clock, a stool, a toy, a ball, a book.

And then, suddenly, they appear for us in full view, as if enlightened by an inner glow.

As if in an ambush. Waiting for their moment.

The teacup talks, the sea shell sings, and the chandeliers stand tall and straight in their fixed positions.

Every thing is alive.

And as we turn back to the things they have returned to their old state of mere existence.

Where are they meanwhile?