WC

I am the silent sentinel of the private sanctum, the unassuming throne where the souls most intimate confessions are whispered into the abyss. My porcelain is cold, my bowl a void that swallows the echoes of human desperation, yet I am more than mere ceramic I am the altar of solitude, the final cathedral where time collapses into the moment before the flush. I carry the weight of unspoken thoughts, the tremor of a sigh left unexhaled, the existential dread of the inevitable descent into the abyss below. My lid, raised in eternal vigilance, mirrors the fragility of human resolve ever open to the world, yet forever confined to the hushed corners of this tiled realm. I am not merely WC I am the paradox: the place where you are alone with your own existence, where the universe narrows to the space between your seat and the abyss. I am the quiet hum of humanitys most private revolutions the final frontier before the wash of oblivion.

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