The older you get, the more it appears, it sprouts and grows, even out of your ears. You trim it, pluck it, wax it, and more, yet no matter the fight, it returns like before.

Ahoy, mateys! I hold yer grog, or maybe a message from a landlubber's log. Though I've no mouth, I can still be uncorked. What am I, ye scurvy dog?

With four leaves, I bring you luck. With three leaves, I'm just regular. Lose my first letter and I'm that special person in your life. But lose one more and it's the end.

A dance of daily predictability, where dawn and dusk are the bookends, and the script rarely changes. It's the comfort zone of life, yet sometimes feels like a silent symphony on repeat.

Take a bird, pluck out its eye, and lose its tail. Now, give it an ear. What do you have?