I am wet paint on a park bench. I am harmless until touched.
I am batteries that have run dry. I am frustration.
I am a pseudogene. I am useless. I am imperfect.
I am the last drop of ink in your favorite pen.
I am a book on the top shelf that no one can reach. I am hiding.
I am the change in the sofa, a typo in my own biography.