Few may have noticed this and it wasn't for a lack of curiosity for what might lie behind and under those cushions. Seldom was change found and much less so than bits of fluff, pebbles and dust.
I'd like to propose there is an enigma sealed up inside the thing you've been sitting on all this time, while drinking coffee and shooting the breeze. The emptiness of this place is possibly due to atmosphere of a death it resembles.
As with a child looking upon a grave, or a box or an egg, comes the aching curiosity unbounded to see its center. Unfortunately, the nature of its concealment puts such options out of reach. You may not dig up Mr. Wiggles, your dead Dauchshund, without a sense of grave defilement (intoxicating though it is).
And so, as a boy I must sit, on this ship with a cargo one can't well fathom, as if it were nothing more than those curious rods of fission in crumbling buildings on the rim of the great Pacific. They are just objects, material, emitting nothing visible but death.
Sail on sweet vessel, oh floatable couch, to new shores and the vast plains of oceanic emptiness.