The plaster busts stare. They never say much, but they take everything in. From their shelves, they admire themselves—caught in the mirror’s reflection—while the Christmas tree twinkles behind them like they’re posing for a holiday portrait. The whole scene gives them a fresh bit of ego, just to make them feel important.
If they could talk, they’d probably roll their plaster eyes and say, “Living with an antique collector is a gamble. Lucky for us we’re big and heavy—otherwise she’d have us rearranged like the shelf across the way.”
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